Harry Goldman slept in his bunk and dreamed of the day when he’d get parole. At the age of eighteen, he had around seven hundred days to go. Maybe he’d be out of here on his twentieth anniversary of life, just in time to vote. So far, he’d served two months, and with good behavior he might be out in half the time. The call of freedom never sounded as loud as when the cell doors closed for the night. When the lights went out at nine sharp, he dreamed of his research, and the memory of that one little mistake that had cost him his freedom came back to haunt him. Quest for knowledge…solved. Well, almost solved. He saw the constructs on the computer screen, the matrices for life and change that danced like snowflakes in the wind…and then heard the voices of the police who’d arrested him and the voice of the judge who’d sentenced him to this place of reform. Like a video of a car crash being played over and over again in slow motion for the investigators to analyze the whys and what-ifs, he painfully relived the events of the past few months in living color.
