Joe couldn’t sleep. The idea of freedom lay before him and he felt paralyzed with anxiety.
Three years.
He’d been locked up in here for more than a thousand days. He didn’t have a nickel to his name. And what of his name? What was it worth out there now? A criminal record was all he had to show for. He didn’t want to live off Christophe. No, he wouldn’t stand for that. He wouldn’t let Christophe go back to his past offenses.
In the last month, Christophe had visited Joe’s mother, she’d told him so in her letter. She referred to Christophe as the “nice gentleman with the red hair”, and in her letter she went on and on about the treats, coat, and boots Christophe had bought for her. It seemed the little brat had convinced her that Joe was a hero who’d saved his life, and therefore, he was
