In fact, we were close enough to the water and coastline that I saw a currently unpopulated beach at the end of the road and small, foamy, dark waves hitting the shoreline. The station was inside a small, old brick building with a clock tower rising up its middle turret. The sign above the door said, “Monticello Police Station.” We were taken inside where I was directed to sit on a reception area bench and wait. Hamlet had calmed some from his initial fear, but he was still intimidated by being hauled off by the police. He’d gone willingly, but still, going with the police was always scary. The station’s architecture was like a lot of other buildings I’d seen, medieval, probably Roman, which I thought was just ornate enough to be regal but not enough to be froufrou. Even the simple wooden bench I sat on was old, probably crafted in the early 1900s. Its two seat spots were worn shiny and dark but the rest of the lighter-colored wood looked old and tired. “Jessie loves Billy”
