Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 133180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“The little bastard jumped out the fucking pot! Get it, Bishop! Don’t just stand there!” his dad yelled.
Bishop was laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Mike so petrified, especially when he was a hundred times bigger than the object scaring him. The crab’s little claws were raised high as if in a fighting position. Bishop walked over and put his boot on top of the crab’s butt, just enough to keep it from running farther down the hall. The claws nipped at the thick sole of his boots, but they were useless. Bishop’s laughter was contagious as his dad stared at him, his own smile forming as he got down off the chair. “Fuck you.” Mike flipped him off.
“Damn, I should’ve recorded that for Trent.” Bishop laughed even louder.
“I haven’t heard you laugh like that in years, lil homie,” his dad said as Bishop took the tongs from him and got their runaway friend back into the pot with his pals. “Fishing was interesting, but bowling was fun as hell… maybe we should try more of that. And maybe an amusement park, or like miniature golf or some shit.”
Bishop’s laughter tamped down to a soft chuckle as he sat at the table waiting for his dad to finish dinner. He hadn’t laughed like that for longer than he could remember. He’d had nothing to laugh or smile about. Now he believed he did. Mike tossed him a beer, then sat in the other chair. They talked about twenty minutes as Mike picked through the mail from the past few days.
“Hey. You got a letter,” his dad said, and handed him a thin envelope addressed to him from Inmate #589645, Herschel Wood at the... what…what’s this? Bishop didn’t recognize the name of the prison he and Wood had been at for five years.
“Dad.” Bishop frowned as he tore open the letter. He gave the envelope to Mike. “Where is this from?”
Bishop stared at the very few words Wood had written to him. He wouldn’t want Bishop to have to ask anyone to read it and he knew better than to make it too complicated. After several seconds Bishop smiled at Wood’s clean, block-style handwriting. It was simple and to the point, just like his old cell mate.
Be home soon, B.
Bishop folded the single piece of yellow-lined paper and put it into his back pocket.
“He sent this from Eastern Shore Regional Jail.” His dad read the return address on the envelope to him. “That’s in Eastville, Virginia.”
“Jail? He’s been moved,” Bishop said to himself. “That means he’s getting paroled.”
“Did he say that?” Mike asked as he lined the table with newspaper then dumped the steaming orange crabs in the center of the table, with a large bowl of melted butter.
“No. But if he’s gone from federal prison to a minimum security jail that’s close to his hometown—like they did me—then he’s about to get out.” Bishop could feel excitement stirring in his stomach.
Mike broke off a claw and dipped it into the butter. “That’s good news.”
Bishop stared at his dad. “That’s damn good news. If anyone doesn’t belong in a place like that, it’s Wood. He’s a good man.”
“Does he have family?” Mike asked.
“He’s been locked up for seventeen years.” Bishop shook his head slowly. “He has no one.”
“Maybe he needs you to have his back when he gets out, like he had yours when you went in.” Mike’s expression was serious.
“How can I help him when I’m just barely helping myself?”
“You got a good job, a roof over your head, and a couple people who love you and want to see you succeed. That’s a lot… especially to someone who doesn’t have it.”
Bishop kept eating as his dad spoke in a way he’d never done when he’d been growing up. He was so glad to have this Mike now, when he needed him the most. “Maybe he can bunk on the couch for a few weeks until he gets a job.”
“Hey. If that guy’s the one that kept your nose clean while you were in, then he’s all right in my book.” Mike clamped Bishop on his shoulder with his crab-scented hand. “I didn’t teach you this, B, but I am now because someone taught it to me. It’s called paying it forward.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Edison
Edison adjusted his necktie in the mirror as he prepared for another Monday. He was actually glad to be going to work, to have something to do, because Sunday had been full of long, boring hours of cleaning and errands. It’d taken a lot of willpower not to call Bishop. He knew he was trying to have some bonding time with his dad, and Edison didn’t want to infringe on that. He’d have given anything for just one more day with his pop. They used to fish on his uncle’s boat when they could carve out the time. Those days had been some of the best of his life and he missed his best friend every day.