It took Mark a minute to find his rhythm. He didn’t even log onto the phone until almost twenty-five after seven. It was his first late check-in in six years, and he stumbled through his first few calls—“What color was the vehicle?” “Oh my God, for the third time, it was blue!”; “Did he have a weapon?” “You mean other than the gun you just had me describe twice?” He was unaccustomed to the daytime calls, mostly cold reports of petty crimes that barely seemed to matter even to their victims, and quite unused to feeling clumsy. He’d taken great care to gather himself together before leaving home. For a few minutes he’d been shaking too badly to safely drive, and for another few he contemplated packing his s**t and leaving just to save Starr the trouble of throwing him out. He’d talked himsel
