With the specter of death looming and with a little time to think, he’d come to a number of revelations concerning such matters as who he was and how he’d come to be driving a diesel delivery truck in bumfuck Arizona on the day a prison riot was destined to take place. Not coincidentally, he’d also come to realize that he’d managed to get through forty-four years on the planet without ever taking the time to sit and wonder about the choices made and the roads not taken. Like he’d just been along for the ride on the delivery of his life. Wasn’t like he was some sixth-generation redneck like some of the folks around here. Eking out livings cutting wood and working as handymen. Wearing the same winter coats until the fabric fell off their backs. Married to one of these hatchet-faced desert queens, so bony and brown they looked like overcooked chicken wings. No . . . he’d had every advantage. Every chance to make some-No Man’s Land thing of himself. Like everybody else born and raised in Larchmont, New York, Paul had faced a fairly codified set of expectations.
