And even if they don’t find me, I’d still be surrounded by the same environment, doing the same old shit. I’m not even able to thrive in a normal society anyway. Getting a real job or going to school is impossible. One background check and my past is right there to ruin me. It’s the same problem that’s been haunting me since I got out.

Dammit! What am I going to do?

I rack my mind for an alternative as I make the short walk home. When I reach my street, I spot a black car with tinted windows parked in front of my house.

Damn. They’re already here.

I hop the fence on the corner of the block and dive into the shelter of the neighbor’s backyard. I repeat the movement on the next fence. And the next one. Four fence hops later, I land in my own backyard.

The lights in my house are off, which is odd. My father was drunk as shit when he sent me to the warehouse to play. He usually leaves all the lights on in his drunken stupor so the fact that the house is dark has me concerned. What if Elderman’s men are in there? What if they have my father?

I tiptoe across the grass then try to get a good look through the window, but all the curtains are drawn.

Inching to my right, I cautiously edge to the back door that has a small, square window at the top. I can vaguely see inside the pitch black kitchen. Nothing appears out of the ordinary. The house is quiet.

Right as I’m about to turn the doorknob, I spot movement from inside. A split second later, I hear footsteps thudding across the grass toward me. Whirling around, I swing my fist, figuring it has to be Elderman’s men. The person ducks, and I end up grazing my knuckles across his temple. I move to kick him, but he dodges out of my way. Another figure appears to the side of him and shines a light in my eyes, causing me to stumble sideways.

Arms wrap around me, and then I’m shoved against the house. I throw my head back and smack the person’s face. Curse words fly, but the person doesn’t release his hold on me. He pushes me forward until my cheek smashes against the door.

“Ryler Price,” one of them says, pinning my arms behind my back, “you need to come with us.”

In moments like these, I really fucking hate not being able to talk. I could shout, scream, tell them to go fuck themselves, but all I can do is breathe heavily and struggle to get away.

My fight is short-lived as handcuffs are slapped down on my wrists, my arms left trapped behind my back.

The person holding a flashlight steps to the side of me and beams the light in my face again. “Relax. We’re not going to hurt you.”

I blink against the brightness and squint to see who the man is. One of Elderman’s men? No, I don’t think so. He’s way too thin and dressed too nicely in a tie and suit jacket to be part of their rough crowd.

“Ryler, I’m Federal Agent Senford and this is Agent Stales.” The guy motions at the man pinning me against the door. He retrieves a badge from his jacket pocket and shows it to me. “We’d like to have a word with you in private.”

This isn’t my first time being arrested, but definitely my first time being arrested by feds.

“Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble,” the guy holding me against the door says. “We just need to speak with you.” He loosens his hold and allows me to back up and face them. “We know your house is under surveillance, so we’re going to take you out the back gate and bring you down to the station.” He speaks slowly and way too loud. “Don’t put up a fight; otherwise, we can’t offer you protection from Elderman. Nod if you understand us.”

They know I’m being chased by Elderman, know I’m mute, and think I’m stupid apparently. Still, I nod and follow them out of the yard because: a) I’m really fucking curious to see where this is going, and b) I don’t really have a choice.

Once we make it out the back gate, they steer me around the side of the neighbor’s house and to a black car parked near the curb. They put me in the backseat, and then we drive past the Strip, toward the edge of the flashing city.

I’d love to ask questions, but all I can do is remain silent, watching the houses and casinos blur by as we veer up and down streets I don’t recognize.

Finally, about thirty minutes later, we pull up to a small, brick building secluded in the center of the desert near a few abandoned stores and vacant homes. The parking lot has a few cars similar to the one we’re in, and the lights are on in the building.

After the two agents climb out of the car, Senford opens the back door and motions for me to get out. I momentarily hesitate and then realize I don’t have any other choice. I duck my head as I swing my feet out to the ground and stand.

“It’ll be okay, Ryler,” Agent Stale reassures me again as we cross the parking lot and enter the brick building.

Inside are rows and rows of cubicles. A few people sit at desks, talking on phones or using computers.

“This way,” Stale says to me as he turns to the right, heading away from the cubicles and toward a hallway.

Beneath the light, I can see what the two of them look like. Stale is young, thirty tops, with black hair. Senford is older, pushing at least fifty, with graying hair and a beard. The two of them seem like the perfect good cop, bad cop combo. Stale being the good cop with his perfectly pressed suit, cheery expression, and constant reassurance. Senford is the opposite—rougher, his expression hard and unwelcoming.

When they take me into a room with three chairs and a table, I start to wonder if they are busting me for illegal gambling because it looks like a police interrogation room.