Ral's parole officer approved independent living after six months of perfect compliance at the halfway house. He found a small apartment in Baltimore's working-class neighborhood—one bedroom, kitchen barely big enough to turn around in, bathroom with pipes that rattled. But it was his, first space he'd controlled since surrender thirteen years ago.
Maya had gotten similar approval in DC. They met for dinner at cheap restaurant halfway between their cities, no longer needing supervision for visits now that they'd both proven they could follow parole rules.
"This is weird," Maya said, sitting across from him in booth with cracked vinyl seats. "Eating dinner in public like normal people. No guards watching, no time limits, no rules about what we can discuss."
"We're not normal people," Ral
