There’s a wiggle to his shoulders, like a playboy shaking the dust from his suit as he swaggers onto the dancefloor. I recognise the gleam in his eyes. From this day forward Dustin Fairchild is a free man, and his irises blaze again; bottle green and bright like neon, and he’ll be seeing enough of bottles and neon soon enough.
He leans against the wall of my cell and smiles.
‘I guess I’ll see you on the outside, old man.’
I don’t look at him. Just nod.
‘You know…’ he says, staring at my tiny window and lingering by the open door of my cell. Whatever he thinks I know, he can’t seem to spit it out.
‘Thanks for cutting my ear off,’ I say. ‘And for breaking my nose. I’m glad it was you.’
I look up at him and he’s still fixated on the view from my window. He can’t seem to drag his eyes aw
