Agent Hunt comes back. “See?” he says. “It’s just the three of us.”
I wonder if he’s counting anyone listening to us via whatever recording devices are in the room, but I decide not to push my luck. I want to know what’s going on.
“Okay,” I say. “You got me out of class. I appreciate that. What can I do in return?”
“You’re a character,” Agent Jones says, shaking his head.
I study him as best I can, while trying to look bored. Jones is built like a barrel—short and solid, with thinning light brown hair the color of bread. There’s a scar at the edge of his narrow upper lip. He smells like aftershave and stale coffee.
Agent Hunt leans in. “You know, most innocent people get upset when they get picked up by the Feds. They demand to see their lawyer, tell us that we’re violating their civi
