9
Rocky squinted as the guard slapped on the overhead lights in the row of holding cells. The place reeked of urine and mice, and his head ached something fierce. His stomach heaved, but since he hadn’t eating anything for at least a day, there was nothing to come up.
“Come on, fella,” said the guard gruffly. The man’s round, grinning face came into focus. His badge was so shiny it made Rocky’s eyes hurt. “We gotta get you processed and released.”
The cop—the brass nametag over his left shirt pocket said his name was Summers—selected a large steel key from the ring he had strapped to a silver key holder on his heavy black Sam Brown belt. He pulled it out like it was a fishing line, then plugged it in the lock on Rocky’s cell door. When he turned the key, there was a metal-on-metal sound
