“I just got out last month. I did another nickel in Soledad, and got out last year. They violated me six months ago, for possession of a firearm. No big deal. I just got out again. This place ain't bad. I think there are a couple of guys here you know.”

“What'd you do the nickel for?” Waters asked, eyeing him. Stark's hair was long, and he had a rugged, battered face. He'd been in a lot of fights as a kid.

“They busted me in San Diego. I got a job as a mule across the border.” He had been in for dealing, when he and Waters first met. It was the only work Stark knew. He was forty-six years old, had been state raised, had been dealing drugs since he was fifteen, and using them since he was twelve. But the first time he'd gone to prison, there had been manslaughter charges too. Someone had gotten killed when a drug deal went sour. “No one got hurt this time.” Waters nodded. He actually liked the guy, although he thought he was a fool to have gotten caught again. And being a mule was as low as it got. It meant he had been hired to carry dope across the border, and obviously hadn't been smart about it, if he'd gotten arrested. But sooner or later, they all did. Or most of them anyway.

“So who else is here?” Waters inquired. For them, it was like a club or a fraternity of men who had been in prison.

“Jim Free, and some other guys you know.” Jim Free, Carlton Waters remembered, had been in Pelican Bay for attempted murder and kidnap. Some guy had paid him to kill his wife, and he'd blown it. Both he and the husband had gotten a “dime.” Ten years. A nickel was five. Pelican Bay, and San Quentin before it, were considered the graduate schools of crime. In some places equal to Peter Morgan's Harvard MBA. “So what are you going to do now, Carl?” Stark inquired, as though discussing summer vacations, or a business they were going to start. Two entrepreneurs discussing their future.

“I've got some ideas. I have to report in to my PA, and there are some people I've got to see about a job.” Waters had family in the area, and he had been making plans for years.

“I'm working on a farm, boxing tomatoes,” Stark volunteered. “It's shit work, but the pay is decent. I want to drive a truck. They said I had to box for three months, till they get to know me. I've got two months to go. They need guys if you want work,” Stark suggested casually, trying to be helpful.

“I want to see if I can find a job in an office. I've gotten soft.” Waters smiled. He looked anything but, he was in remarkable shape, but manual labor didn't appeal to him. He was going to see if he could talk his way into something better. And with luck, he might. The supply officer he'd worked for, for the last two years, had given him a glowing reference, and he had acquired decent computer skills in prison. And after the articles he'd written, he was a modestly skilled writer. He still wanted to write a book about his life in prison.

The two men sat around and talked for a while, and then went out to dinner. They had to sign in and out, and be back by nine o'clock. All Carlton Waters could think of as he walked to the restaurant with Malcolm was how strange it felt to be walking down a street again, and to be going out to dinner. He hadn't done that in twenty-four years, since he was seventeen. He had spent sixty percent of his life in prison, and he hadn't even pulled the trigger. At least that was what he had told the judge, and they had never been able to prove he had. It was over now. He had learned a lot in prison that he might never have learned otherwise. The question was what to do with it. For the moment, he had no idea.

Fernanda picked Ashley and Sam up at school, then dropped Ashley off at ballet, and went home with Sam. As usual, they found Will in the kitchen. He spent most of his time at home eating, although he didn't look it. He was an athlete, both lean and powerful, and just over six feet tall. Allan had been six two, and she assumed that Will would get there soon, at the rate he was growing.

“What time's your game?” Fernanda asked, as she poured Sam a glass of milk, added an apple to a plate of cookies, and set them down in front of him. Will was eating a sandwich that looked like it was about to explode with turkey, tomatoes, and cheese, and was dripping mustard and mayo. The boy could eat.

“It's not till seven,” Will said between mouthfuls. “You coming?” He glanced at her, acting as though he didn't care, but she knew he did. She always went. Even now, with so much else on her mind. She loved being there for him, and besides, it was her job. Or had been till now. She would have to do something else soon. But for now, she was still a full-time mother and loved every minute of it. Being there with them was even more precious to her now that Allan had died.

“Would I miss it?” She smiled at him and looked tired, trying not to think of the fresh stack of bills she had put in the box before she left to pick up the kids at school. There seemed to be more every day, and they were growing exponentially. She had had no idea how much Allan spent. Nor how she would pay for it now. They had to sell the house soon, for as much as she could get for it. But she was trying not to think of it as she spoke to Will. “Who are you playing?”

“A team from Marin. They suck. We should win.” He smiled at her, and she grinned, as Sam ate the cookies and ignored the apple.

“That's good. Eat your apple, Sam,” she said, without even turning her head, and he groaned in answer.

“I don't like apples,” he grumbled. He was an adorable six-year-old with bright red hair, freckles, and brown eyes.

“Then eat a peach. Eat some fruit, not just cookies.” Even in the midst of disaster, life went on. Ballgames, ballet, after-school snacks. She was going through the motions of normalcy, mostly for them. But also for herself. Her children were the only thing getting her through it.

“Will's not eating fruit,” Sam said, looking grumpy. She had one of every color, so to speak. Will had dark hair like his father, Ashley was blond like her, and Sam had bright red hair, although no one could figure out courtesy of whose genes. There were no redheads in the family, on either side, that they knew of. With his big brown eyes and multitude of freckles, he looked like a kid in an ad or a cartoon.

“Will is eating everything in the refrigerator, from the look of it. He doesn't have room for fruit.” She handed Sam a peach and a tangerine, and glanced at her watch. It was just after four, and if Will had a game at seven, she wanted to serve dinner at six. She had to pick Ashley up at ballet at five. Her life was broken into tiny pieces now, as it had always been, but more so than ever, and she no longer had anyone to help her. Shortly after Allan died, she had fired the housekeeper and the au pair who had helped take care of Sam previously. She had stripped away all of their expenses, and was doing everything including the housework herself. But the kids seemed to like it. They loved having her around all the time, although she knew they missed their father.

They sat at the kitchen table together, while Sam complained about a fourth grader who had bullied him at school that day. Will said he had a science project due that week, and asked her if she could get some copper wire for him. And then Will advised his brother what to do about bullies. He was in high school, and the other two went to grade school. Will was still holding his own scholastically since January, but Ashley's grades had plummeted, and Sam's first-grade teacher said he cried a lot. They were all still in shock. And so was Fernanda. She felt like crying all the time. The kids were almost used to it by now. Whenever Will or Ashley walked into her room, she seemed to be crying. She put up a better front for Sam, although he'd been sleeping in her bed for four months, and he heard her crying sometimes too. She even cried in her sleep. Ashley had complained to Will only days before that their mother never laughed anymore, she hardly even smiled. She looked like a zombie.

“She will,” Will had said sensibly, “give her time.” He was more adult than child these days, and was trying to step into his father's shoes.

They all needed time to recover, and he was trying to be the man in the family. More than Fernanda thought he should. Sometimes she felt like a burden to him now. He was going to lacrosse camp that summer, and she was glad for him. Ashley had made plans to go to Tahoe, to a friend's house, and Sam was going to day camp and staying in town with her. She was glad the kids would be busy. It would give her time to think, and do what she had to do with their attorney. She just hoped the house sold fast once they put it on the market. Although that would be a shock for the kids too. She had no idea where they were going to live once it sold. Someplace small, and cheap. She also knew that sooner or later it would come out that Allan had been totally broke and heavily in debt when he died. She had done what she could to protect him until now, but eventually the truth would come out. It wasn't the kind of secret you could keep forever, although she was almost certain that no one knew yet. His obituary had been wonderful and dignified and sung his praises. For whatever it was worth. She knew it was what Allan would have wanted.

When she left to pick up Ashley just before five, she asked Will to keep an eye on Sam. And then she drove to the San Francisco Ballet, where Ashley took classes three times a week. She wasn't going to be able to afford that anymore either. When all was said and done, all they were going to be able to do was go to school, keep a roof over their heads, and eat. The rest was going to be slim pickings, unless she got a great job, which was unlikely. It didn't matter anymore. Very little did. They were alive, and had each other. It was all she cared about now. She spent a lot of time asking herself why Allan hadn't understood that. Why he would rather have died than face his mistakes, or bad luck, or poor judgment, or all of the above? He had been in the grips of some kind of deal fever that had led him right up to the edge and past it, at everyone's expense. Fernanda and the children would much rather have had him than all that money. In the end, nothing good had come of it. Some good times, some fun toys, a lot of houses and condominiums and co-ops they didn't need. A boat and plane that had seemed pointless extravagances to her. They had lost their father, and she lost her husband. It was much too high a price to pay for four years of fabulous luxury. She wished he had never made the money in the first place, and they had never left Palo Alto. She was still thinking about it, as she often did now, when she stopped on Franklin Street outside the ballet. She got there just as Ashley walked out of the building in her leotard and sneakers, carrying her toe shoes.