“Sit down, Joseph.” From across his desk, Cooke watched him for a long time.
Finally, when Joe was seated and the guard had stepped back to the open door, Cooke let out a long sigh. “I should have you flogged, you know that? I have the right.” He patted a large, blue leather-bound book on his desk. “I wouldn’t be breaking any rules if I had you severely punished for the damage you’ve caused in your cell.”
They stared at each other from across the desk. Across the divide between them. Joe didn’t hate Cooke. He half respected the man, but Cooke needed to understand something; it was too late for him. He wouldn’t be domesticated.
“Joseph,” Cooke said, after a while, and very darkly, “your mother wrote you. She’s not doing too well, but it isn’t TB.”
Joe shifted in his seat.
“She’s not dy
