Irritated by the question, Daryl Barnes spared Chuck Warren no more than a quick, impatient glance as he paced in the dilapidated mobile home. There might not be any bars on the windows, nor armed guards at the door, but he felt trapped just the same. As if the walls were closing in on him and there was no escape. It was the same way he’d felt during his four long years in the maximum security prison in Potosi. He hated it now as much as he’d hated it then. “I don’t know.” Chuck leaned back in an upholstered chair that looked as if it had been salvaged from someone’s street-side garbage pile. Stuffing oozed through the rips in the stained fabric as he took a swig from his beer can. “You can stay here as long as you need to, man. Unless I get lucky some night. Then I might ask you to take a hike for a little while.” His leering grin revealed several discolored, rotting teeth. Pausing beside the battered TV set, Daryl looked over at Chuck.
