Hot Water Press
Mr. Meyers flapped his hands on his thighs as he waited. He sat alone in a room as spare as a third-world medical clinic or an interrogation chamber.
The door opened and the director entered followed by a burly white boy with tightly curled hair. The boy held his mouth in a firm frown and sat across the table from Mr. Meyers. He glared a moment at Mr. Meyers, then found the floor. Mr. Meyers stopped flapping his hands.
The director talked about rules. Mr. Meyers must not let the boy called Reuben out of his sight. He must pick up and drop off the boy on time. No drugs, no alcohol. And on and on. Mr. Meyers didn’t care that much about rules. He’d substitute his judgment for any rules, the way he had all his life. He wanted to get out of the room, to get the boy and go. Finally, the director asked if they both understood.