The first time I was caught, I was nine years old. I was down at the open market on Parkway. Mom had sent me to pick up a batch of vegetables she wanted to use for a stew later that evening. I didn't like stew - haven't liked it since I was seven. So I was kicking the dirt as I made my way down the crowded street, trying to find the food stands. And that's when I saw it. It was a cart piled high with gadgets of all kinds. I peered closer at a fuel cell. All I could think, as I looked closer, was how badly I wanted it. The engine in my surfer had died only a week before, when one of the fuel cells blew out. I frowned at the price - there was no way I could find that kind of money. So I looked around, convinced no one was watching, and carefully slipped the fuel cell off the stand and into the small bag I was supposed to use for the vegetables.

I must not have been careful enough, because I was so nervous I knocked over a stack of copper tubing. The manager came stumbling out of nowhere, shouting "What the devil?" as he looked around. He spotted me. Panicked, I took off down the street as fast I could, pushing past people. Not watching where I was going, I ran straight into a stout alien woman and fell back, the ground knocking the wind out of me. The manager caught up, pulling me roughly to my feet as he scooped the bag off the ground. The fuel cell fell out onto his palm, and I flushed with shame as he boxed me a couple times on the ears, calling me a wicked boy who needed to learn basic integrity and earn his own honest money. He stormed off and I ran all the way home, my lungs fit to burst. I went up to my room and probably cried for an hour straight, especially when Mom found out.

After that, I was more careful.

I had never expected to be caught there at the mines. I was terrified of what they saw - or thought they saw - when the constabularies showed up. Things were definitely looking down.

I tried not to let it show as they drove me to the station. They must not have been used to the size of my wrists (I was kinda scrawny then) because they kept tying the rope cuffs too loose. I made it into a game to take my mind off what I was in for. I'd wince every time one of the cops tied the cuffs, wait a moment - and then politely hand it back. We went through the game five times before they caught on - the sixth time, the ropes burned my skin. No getting out of that one. Satisfied, they left me alone, and I was quiet the rest of the trip.

We arrived at the station (the guard from the mines long since rushed to the surgeon) and I was pulled out of the coach by a robot constabulary. I glared at it, but just the way it towered over me, surrounded by the other constabularies, made me feel insignificant. I was marched into the station, which always looked familiar - even in the dark.

At that time it wasn't so busy. Lanterns were scattered here and there, giving the dreary-looking building the impression of a fiery pit filled with sinners in cages and little devils disguised as law officers. Mom always said I had an overactive imagination, though I've never understood why that was a bad thing.

We stopped in front of a desk dubbed "Sheriff Dick Undersage". A Benbonian was bowed over a mass of paper work, squinting in the dim light.

"You again?" He glanced up through thick wire frame glasses, which only made his hideous eyes even more disgusting. "I dare say, we've seen a lot of you lately."

I shrugged. "Well, you know, when you're popular…"

He stared hard at me. I stared right back. "So, what are you in here for?" he asked casually.

"I dunno, why don't you tell me?" I replied, just as cool.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of taking away the spotlight. How about you go wait in that room while I speak to these fine gentlemen, and then you can tell me all about it."

If I had full use of my hands, I would have given him a very rude gesture as I was shoved away. I didn't care what I got for it. Instead I was sat in a small, plain room, with only one table, a lantern, and some chairs. There were playing cards spread on the floor, and some empty bottles. It must have been a rec room when it wasn't occupied by juvenile delinquents.

The constable untied the cuffs and left me alone. I sat and rubbed my wrists in silence, staring at the surface of the table. I imagined I could have drilled little holes in the tabletop with my eyes, and then shoved them in the holes in little pieces - the sheriff, the constables, Samson and Thomas. I'd make them all fit, somehow.

I wasn't by myself for very long. The sheriff came in, smiling, a file clutched in his grotesque hands. He sat down across from me and looked over the file, humming a popular Montressian working tune. I was half curious how he knew it, but I wouldn't give him the pleasure of asking. Instead I kept silent, thinking, running over any possible excuses that might wheedle me out this time. My bangs fell into my eyes. Heck, if only they could make me disappear… he looked up and gave the papers a tap. "Your name is written here as 'Jim'. Is that short for something?"

Yeah, it's short for 'Screw you, Dick'. "James."

"Just 'James', then? No last name?"

"You've got a problem with that or somethin'?"

"No, not at all," he said with a grin. "Unless you'd like me to add 'contempt' to your already growing list of infractions."

Geez, alright, just asking… nosy old coot… "'Hawkins'. My last name is Hawkins."

He smiled in a superior, victorious sort of way. God, did I hate that smile. Everyone looked at me that way back then. "There, now, that wasn't so bad." I scowled to notice he didn't write it down - he must have known it the whole time. Jerk.

"Look, could you just tell me why I'm here? I really want to go home," I muttered, crossing my arms as I sank into my jacket.

"I'll tell you when you can go home, Mr. Hawkins. I have some questions to ask you first, but you must realize how important it is that you are completely honest. You're welcome to stay here as long as you'd like until you're ready to tell the truth. Am I making myself clear?"

"Whatever."

"Alright, very good. Now, will you tell me what you were doing at that abandoned mine this evening?"

I looked away. "Throwing rocks," I grumbled.

"I see." He scribbled in the file. "And for what purpose?"

"Just because, alright?" I scoffed, then paused. "My father used to work there. I was there once. I got upset… which pissed me off, so I threw the rocks … and the place just started coming down."

"Ah. Now, did you know that was private property?"

"No."

"Mr. Hawkins…"

"Yes, I did, okay?"

He smiled again. "There's a good lad. Did you intend to do serious damage to the site?"

"Uhh… well, no… not at first…"

"But you did." More like a statement than a question.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

The sheriff nodded and continued to scribble rapidly in the file. "Now, James, this is very important. Were you alone?"

I didn't answer. I was thinking of Samson and Thomas, a hundred memories passing through my head… up until the memory of their backs as they turned and ran away. What had they ever done for me? What had I ever done for them?

"Mr. Hawkins?" I heard the sheriff say warningly.

"Yeah… yeah, I was alone."

He looked skeptical, but didn't press the subject. "Were you aware there was someone else on the site?"

"He shouldn't have been there in the first place," I snapped.

"That was not the question, Mr. Hawkins. Were you or were you not aware of the peril you put this man's life in?"

I met his eyes. "No, I was not."

He stared at me. "Are you refusing responsibility?"

"It wasn't my fault!"

"Did you even try to help the man, or did you just take off to save your own skin?"

"I tried to help him!"

"Your position suggested otherwise."

"He was too heavy! I couldn't take him any further!"

The sheriff's eyes glinted at me in a condescending way; his hand paused over the file. It slowly dawned on me. "No… no, I'm not a murderer… I didn't… I mean…" I drifted off, heart pounding. He shook his head as he put his quill pen to the page, like a death sentence.

"The circumstances are certainly suspicious, young man. You were not only caught trespassing and vandalizing, but possibly caused deliberate harm or intentional death to another person. Until the man recovers, there is no other evidence to back up your side of the story. The good news is there isn't enough evidence to support a possible sentence, either, until the man's side is given. Do you understand me, Jim?"

I nodded, throat suddenly very dry. "Yes, sir, I understand…"

The sheriff sighed as he stood up, tucking the file under one arm. "Until that time, I would like you to remain here at the station while this is sorted out. You are still a convicted felon, and I can't have you running the streets, Heaven forbid."

I looked away, head bowed. I heard him walk out, shutting the door behind him, leaving me alone with the flickering lantern. His words kept ringing in my ears, until I couldn't take it anymore. I did something I hadn't done in a long, long time. I cried. Thin tears and quiet sobs were all I could amount to.