Oliver Benjamin
stack of large-denomination bills. He quickly closed it and shoved it
in his pocket, glancing around to make sure no one had seen. Light
from a clothing store shone down on him from across the street. He
had to ditch the prison rags and blend into the crowd.
With a T-shirt featuring an illustration of some impaled saint
together with a pair of extremely loose-fitting trousers, Roy looked
many years younger than he actually was. Once again he was on the
road, all dressed down and everywhere to go. The thought filled him
with adolescent thrill. He was not dead yet. Never more alive. What
wicked joy. He took off running in a childish spasm, brilliant teeth
shining in the darkness and illuminating the eyes of all who
witnessed his unfettered passion, his imminent flight.
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