Chapter Text
The ceiling lights buzzed with a quiet hum, each two by two foot squares evenly spaced out by three tiles throughout the entirety of the room. Above himself, Alexander noticed a patterned flicker in the light: every four to five seconds, it would slightly dim a few times, noise lessening, then turn back on to its glaring luminosity. Alexander held his skin tighter between his nails every time he noticed it, irritated, the variances in loudness and brightness whispering screams in his mind. He shifted in his seat once more, closing his eyes with a sharp breath, then jumped as someone sat behind the desk in front of him.
Alexander’s eyes drew up, scanning attentively the woman, who seemed to open her computer and observe down a file.
“Mr. Hamilton, correct?” she asked.
Alexander blinked, her voice distant. The light flickered again.
She turned her bored gaze to him. “Mr. Hamilton?” she repeated.
Alexander forced his two hands to withdraw from each other, small indents from his nails all over his skin. “Huh, yes,” he answered. “That’s me. My, huh,” he hesitated. “My parole officer arranged the meeting.”
“Right,” the woman said, raising one of her brow. “Let’s jump in, shall we?” she continued, straightening in her seat and leaning forward toward her computer screen, turned away from Alexander. “How long have you been under parole for?”
“Two months,” Alexander breathed out listlessly. “Two months and seventeenth days.”
She paused toward him. “You’re precise,” she commented without interest. “Alright. And you’ve been having a hard time finding employment?”
“Why else would I be here?” he asked curtly, the weight of annoyance growing in his chest as the light flickered again. It seemed to only buzz louder with the passing seconds. He gripped his knees with his hands.
She observed him, then nodded, jotting something down on his files. Alexander knew he was too brusque.
“What kind of education or training do you have?” she asked.
“I have an undergraduate degree in finance,” He said, tone strained as he tried to make it lighter. “Bachelor in commerce, at Columbia. I graduated six years ago.”
Surprise appeared in her eyes, her brows furrowing. “You do?” she said, then looking him over.
Alexander tensed up, and he couldn’t help a glare. “Yes,” he declared, slightly indignant.
“Oh,” she exhaled. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you can understand that’s not really the kind of profile I usually work with,” she exclaimed. “Most of the people I see don’t even have a high school degree, so you’re already ahead of the curve.”
“I was also enrolled for a law degree,” Alexander nodded to himself.
“But you didn’t graduate?” she asked, suddenly more interested in him.
Alexander stayed silent for a moment, lips pressed tightly together. He didn’t notice his hands clasping back together again, tearing at his already damaged skin. “I almost finished two semesters,” he answered.
“Oh, well,” she said, a bit awkward. “You seem like a good candidate. I’m sure we’ll find you employment quickly,” she assured him. “What kind of industry would you like to work in?”
Alexander blinked slowly. “Anything corporate,” he said. “I’m good with numbers.”
“Corporations tend not to be very clement toward ex-offenders,” she said. “Our jurisdiction requires convicts to disclose any previous offenses, and white-collars usually have policies and guidelines against hiring those with criminal records.”
Alexander’s fists closed tighter, his nails penetrating the skin of his palms. “I think I know that,” he hissed at her. “That’s why I’m here. Because no one wants to hire me.”
The woman gave him a softened gaze, and nodded. “I understand,” she said. “But there’s no reason to lose hope. There must be businesses out there willing to overlook a minor offense. What were you convicted for?”
Alexander stared at her. He didn’t notice the small drop of blood he had inadvertently drawn from his raw skin, body tense and face impassive. “Manslaughter,” he answered, voice distant.
The woman paused, surprised once more. She opened her mouth, then nodded. “Alright,” she said. She placated a smile on her lips. “We’ll see what we can find.”
“I’m sure of that,” Alexander answered flatly.
As she turned to her computer and started speaking of potential opportunities and networking techniques, Alexander felt his hands burn with pain from his endless picking at them, his frustration growing with the flickering lights, and soon froze up as he noticed a small, low beep coming from his ankle.
Alexander looked down, raising his pants, and saw the light on the bulky, black device turn a deep red. Alexander immediately rose on his feet.
“Mr. Hamilton—” the woman tried, but Alexander swiftly turned around and out of the room.
“Shit,” Alexander cursed, walking fast and restless. “Shit, shit, shit,” he repeated in front of the elevator, seeing its door closing, then rushed to open the staircase, climbing down two by two. He drifted on the tile tiles in his beat-up shoes, getting eyed with curiosity on the ground floor, and he started running once he was finally outside in the fresh air. The beep from his ankle monitor echoed louder than the noise of the busy streets in his ears, panic washing over him mercilessly. He bumped into people without apologizing, shouldering past others with even less care, until he was underground in the subway station, and caught a train at the last second.
Inside, Alexander stared outside the windows, breath caught in his throat. He tapped his foot with anxiety, shaking his head and blinking tightly, as the world seemed to twist and turn around him. He felt dizzy, flashings like the flickering lights inside the employment assistance offices playing under his eyelids to torture him. Red and blue lights came to join the parade, making Alexander nauseous. Each station and each minute made him paler as he sweated bullets through his clothes.
Alexander quickly resumed his running once he reached his station in downtown Brooklyn, and with the wind against his face, he found his way to his apartment building, shabby and decrepit. There were no elevators, and the staircase smelled of cat pee and mold.
Alexander dropped his keys in front of his apartment door, slipping from his marred and sweaty palms. He felt like passing out, a deep anger screaming in his chest as his key refused to enter his doorknob. “Fucking piece of shit door, will you open?” he barked.
Finally, his key slipped in, and Alexander ran inside his apartment. He quickly found a long charging cord in the almost barren living room, and Alexander swiftly connected his ankle monitor to it. The machine stopped beeping.
Alexander’s chest rose up and down, breathless. His throat was painful and raw, his muscles sore from cramping and exertion. Alexander sat down on the floor, closing his eyes to make the black spots in his vision disappear. He felt miserable.
Alexander looked down at his ankle monitor, then around at his narrow apartment he couldn’t escape from. At least it was better than being behind bars, he told himself. He could have panic attacks in peace here, at least.
His shaking body from overwhelming adrenaline eventually started calming, and Alexander swiftly connected his charger to an extension cord, allowing him to get up as it charged. Alexander dragged himself inside the bathroom, sitting down on the toilet lid, using his trembling fingers to wrap bandages around the worst parts of his hands.
They were two pieces of misery meat, his skin lifted around his cuticles, reddened and wounded in the spaces between his fingers, especially between his thumb and index, and sores all over his knuckles, alongside scabs and dry, flaky skin, and now a bleeding spot in his palm. There were already some band-aids, which he changed while he was at it, and he took the time to cut his nails, which he tried to keep short so as not to inflict too much damage to himself.
Two weeks later, Alexander found himself standing behind a cash register at a grocery store.
“It’s simple,” an old lady wearing a gray vest with the store logo, similar to the one he himself was wearing, said to him. “You scan the items one by one, then make them pay. The hardest part is remembering the codes for the fruits, because you can’t scan them. Also, you need to learn the rules of our pricing accuracy policies…”
Alexander stared blankly in front of him, blinking slowly as the woman continued speaking. He remembered his employment counselor at the other end of the line, telling him in a sheepish voice: “You wanted a job that involves numbers. This one does.”
His traits hung downwards, his bored gaze glancing at the incoming customers without attention. Overlooking his actions from his shoulder, the old lady quickly saw he had no difficulty with the work at hand.
“Oh, bananas. Do you remember the code, sweetheart?” the lady said.
Alexander turned his gaze toward her, then entered the ten numbers and letters on his tactile register. She was impressed, patting his back with affection.
“Good job,” she congratulated him. “You’re doing well, so I think I’ll leave you to it. If you need me, I’ll be in the back, alright?”
Alexander sighed and nodded, then looked down to focus on the menial tasks at hand.
He could watch the clock tick by from his station, minutes and hours passing slowly. The beep from each item scanned became more loud and obtrusive at the same pace his mind drifted, the lights too bright, the people and their distant voices startling and intrusive, making him twitch. Every time his hands were free, they were together again, reading to pull out his flesh, but Alexander did his best to part them whenever he noticed it.
Alexander took in deep breaths, trying to keep his grasp on his surroundings and not devolve into panic from the increasingly loud, bright and busy store.
“Alright, Alexander,” Alexander heard close to him, making him jump. The old lady smiled up at him. “The part-timers are here. Your shift is done. I’ll show you how to clock out.”
Alexander blinked, then looked back at the clock. Eight hours had passed by. He wondered where that time went. He followed her to the breakroom, and soon took off his vest, placing it in his small locker.
“Hey, Alex,” the old lady popped in again. “A guy says he’s here for you.”
Alexander frowned, pausing for a second, then followed her again. Alexander quickly recognized his Parole Officer.
“Hello, sir,” Alexander said, shifting on his feet uncomfort. “I wasn’t aware you were picking me up.”
“I’m making sure you actually came to work,” the man said sternly.
“Hm,” Alexander answered, hands finding each other reflexively.
The officer observed him for a moment. “You’re still doing that,” he commented.
Alexander quickly withdrew his clasped hands, palms up, slightly panicked. “I’m— well, I’m trying to stop.”
The officer nodded, unconvinced. He jotted something down on a small notebook. Alexander swallowed his saliva and placed his hands in his pockets.
The tall, unconcerned man looked Alexander over, then nodded to himself. “I need you to perform a drug test,” he said.
Alexander frowned. “Here?” he asked.
The officer nodded impatiently. “Yes, here,” he said. “Go on in the bathroom,” he ordered.
Alexander looked at him for a second, then did as asked. He stood over the urinal, his parole officer watching him over, and provided the urine sample for the man.
Afterwards, Alexander followed him to his car, getting inside as he drove Alexander home.
“You can’t continue harming yourself,” the officer informed Alexander.
Alexander gazed out of the window, slightly annoyed. He knew that. “It’s a bad habit,” he said quietly. “I’m addressing it with my counselor.”
“I better not find out you do anything more to yourself,” the officer continued.
Alexander tensed his jaw. “I’m not,” he said in a strained voice. “It’s just my hands.”
“So if I order a search, I won’t find any other marks on you?” the officer asked.
Alexander closed his eyes. “No,” he exhaled. “Except small bruises. I bruise easily.”
The officer paused. “I’ll believe you for now,” he eventually agreed.
They spent the rest of the drive in silence. Alexander watched the buildings pass by, and quickly made his way out once he arrived at his apartment. He felt his PO’s eyes follow him keenly, up until he climbed inside the building.
Alexander sighed as he closed the door of his apartment. He ran a hand through his hair, connected his ankle monitor to the cord extension, then went to look through his fridge and pantry. Without much reaction, he struggled to find anything to feed himself. He decided to open a can of ravioli, picking up a fork, and opened the window to the fire escape. Alexander sat down, back against the brick wall as he looked down on the street below, while eating right out of the can his tepid raviolis. The sun was coming down outside, shining golden rays onto the city.
“Hey, man,” Alexander heard coming from above him. He frowned up, seeing a guy hover over the railing, cigarette in hand. “You got a light? I lost mine.”
Alexander stared at him for a moment, guarded. “I have matches,” he eventually said.
The guy smiled, then hopped down the metal stairs. “You’re a life-saver, man,” he told Alexander, looking at him expectantly.
Alexander sighed, putting his can down, and climbed back into his apartment. He opened his wallet and pulled out a pack of matches, then tossed it toward the guy outside, picking his food back up. “I want the pack back, though,” Alexander informed him.
“It’s just matches,” the guy said.
“And I want them back,” Alexander said with a glare.
The guy placed his palms up. “Fair enough,” he said, a grin still on his lips. He sat down next to Alexander, lighting up his cigarette. “Want one?”
Alexander continued looking down at his raviolis. “Sure,” he exhaled, tired.
Both of them smoked in silence, the guy giving Alexander quick looks over his shoulders.
“What happened to your hands?” he asked Alexander. “Looks like you got mauled in a bear fight.”
Alexander shrugged. “You should know not to ask questions,” he answered.
The man chuckled. “Good point,” he said. “Especially not to a guy with an ankle cuff.”
Alexander tensed up. “Right,” he said. “Run while you still can.”
The guy laughed again. Alexander thought he was a bit too lively. “Hey, I’m John,” the guy said. “I’ve lived above your new place for a millenia. You’re a way better neighbor than the couple that used to be here. They’d fight every night and then fuck even louder, somehow,” he explained, face lighting up. “I didn’t even know you moved in since last week, when I saw you get picked up by that buff officer guy. You’re so quiet.”
“There’s not much to make noise with,” Alexander answered. “And I don’t like loud sounds. I prefer silence.”
“I bet,” John answered. “Say, what’s your name?”
Alexander glanced at him, quiet for a long moment. “Do you do drugs?” he asked.
John blinked. “Weed, sometimes. Mushrooms, maybe. Why?”
“Do you deal?” Alexander continued.
“Rather not,” John answered.
““Engage in any kind of thing that could get you in trouble?” Alexander pushed.
“Not since I was sixteen,” John continued, bringing the cigarette to his lips again. “This is about your parole shit, isn’t it?”
“I’d prefer not to risk my livelihood over meaningless relationships,” Alexander said.
“Did I pass?” John asked.
Alexander looked down at the streets, watching the cars pass by. He drew from the cigarette, pensive for a second. “I’m Alexander,” he told John.
John smiled. “Could I steal a ravioli?” he asked.
“Knock yourself out,” Alexander handed it over, not very hungry. He was rarely hungry.
“Thanks, man,” John said.
Alexander continued to go work at the grocery store everyday, getting yelled at by customers or bored out of his mind. Once, he scratched a scab on his left hand too hard, making it bleed profusely on a poor woman’s food. That evening, Alexander bought a roll of cohesive bandages before going home, and wrapped his hands up in them for the next day, trimming his nails as short as he could.
He found the work mind-numbing. Everything was too loud, too repetitive. Minor annoyances made him want to scream. Yelling customers tested his patience to new levels, and he sometimes had to walk away to keep himself from becoming too aggressive. Alexander hid away in the bathrooms, tearing what nails he had left into his skin as he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
His only outings outside of work were formal meetings with his parole officer, which he dreaded, and weekly counseling sessions with his therapist, which he did not like much more. He found her attitude demeaning, her questioning tackless, and almost always left the sessions feeling worse than when it started. Then he saw his psychopharmacologist every three to four weeks, who asked him a bunch of questions about his medication: what symptoms did he have? Did he feel less angry? Did he sleep more? Did his self-harming urges intensify? How about the apathy? The depression? The hypervigilance? The anxiety?— on and on and on, and Alexander hated it, too. He left with a new dosage and a renewed prescription from this or that medication, with an endless list of possible side effects. Oh, the sleeping meds could make you depressed, the depression meds could exacerbate your anxiety, the anxiety meds could make you numb, and Alexander stopped reading them long ago.
Then, at the end of the month came the bills. He had to pay for the drug tests they forced him to take, for his ankle monitor, for his parole officer, for his court-ordered mental health treatments, for his medication, as well as the usual utility bills and rent payment.
The monotony near-killed him, until one day at the grocery store.
“Here’s the receipt,” he said in a flat voice to a departing customer. “Thank you for shopping with us.”
He then, working off of muscle memory by that point, started scanning the following customer’s items.
“Hello, sir,” he said absentmindedly. “Do you have our fidelity card—”
His voice then fell silent as he recognized the face in front of him. A tall, bald man stared back at him, glasses perched on over his frowning eyes. Alexander blinked.
“Alexander?” the man said.
“Professor,” Alexander exhaled. He was surprised the man remembered him. “I—” he tried. “Hi, sir.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” George said, looking him over. “I didn’t… know you were out.”
“Yeah,” Alexander answered quietly, hands finding each other. He forced them apart. “It’s— it’s rather new.”
The man nodded, warmth in his eyes. “I see,” he said. He then paused, and looked back at Alexander. “What are you doing here, being a cashier?” he asked.
Alexander looked down at his register. “I’m working,” he said, body tense. “Everyone needs to make a living, somehow.”
“No, I know, son,” George waved off. “But you were one of the most clever students I had. I don’t see what you’re doing manning a register.”
Alexander pressed his lips together, frustration swelling up in his chest. He wanted to pull at his skin so badly, but he forced himself to keep them down on the counter. “I don’t think people care much about my grades anymore, sir,” he answered through gritted teeth.
George stayed silent for a moment. “How disheartening,” he said. “That’s a lot of talent going down the drain.”
“What can you do?” Alexander said, voice strained. He continued scanning George’s items, prompted by the glares of the customers behind him.
“Besides this, have you been well, son?” George asked.
Alexander sighed. “Best I can be, considering…” he faltered. “I’m fine,” he settled.
“That’s good to know,” the man answered. “You know, everything happened so fast back then, I don’t think I ever gave you a proper goodbye.”
“That’s fine,” Alexander said, feeling tinglings in his hands and the world becoming louder around him. “Water under the bridge.”
“It was a tragic affair,” George continued. “Such a promising young man you were, and in only one night, everything you worked for was—”
“Thank you for shopping with us, sir,” Alexander interrupted him, breath caught in his throat. “Will it be cash or credit?” he asked, eyes piercing and pleading.
George was slightly taken aback, but swiftly understood. “Credit, please,” he said.
Alexander turned his gaze back down, eager to end their interaction. “Here’s your receipt,” Alexander said quietly, handing the piece of paper over.
“Thank you,” George said gracefully. He continued to observe Alexander with an attentive eye. “Say,” he started. “Could I take you out for dinner?” he asked. “All on me, for old time’s sake.”
Alexander hesitated. “I’d need to know the location in advance,” Alexander said. “And to get approval from my PO.”
“Well, I’m willing to provide you with all the information you need,” George said.
“And I can’t be out past eight,” Alexander continued, hoping he’d quit.
“I don’t mind an early dinner,” George reassured.
Alexander stared at him, and the customer behind George cleared his throat. George pulled out a pencil from his breast pocket and wrote down his number on his receipt, giving it back to Alexander. “Call me if you’re interested,” George said with a subdued smile. “It was good seeing you, son,” he added, giving a small wave to Alexander before walking off with his bagged goods.
Alexander watched him leave and placed the receipt in his pocket.
“Don’t call me son,” he mumbled to himself, eyes distant.
On that weekend, Alexander stood out in the chilly evening, the sun still coming down on the horizon. George came to pick him up.
“I hope you didn’t wait outside too long,” the man said to Alexander as Alexander settled in his seat, warming his hands together.
“I’m fine,” Alexander waved off. “You’re early.”
“It’s a long drive from Manhattan, I wanted to make sure I’d be here on time,” George explained, starting the car up again. “And don't worry, you’ll be back here on time, too. I gave you my word and I’ll respect it.”
“I know you’re punctual,” Alexander nodded. “You used to have that rule, in college, that after ten minutes of the class starting you’d lock the doors. I still remember glaring at you through the door window, once.”
George chuckled. “Oh, yes, I remember,” he said. “You waited in the hall for the whole three hours, then followed me to my lunch room just to relentlessly complain. My colleagues thought me insane when I eventually made you my TA.”
“Then, I laughed with you at the kids who were late,” Alexander exhaled, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he shifted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs uncomfortably.
George smiled. “I believe I do miss teaching,” he told Alexander.
Alexander frowned, turning his head toward him. “You’re not a professor anymore?”
“Oh, no,” George said calmly.
“Why not?” Alexander asked, frown deepening. It wasn’t his fault, right? “You loved teaching. The students adored you.”
“It was time for me to take a different path,” George explained, with the tone of a parent justifying their divorce to their child. “I had an offer from an old friend to go build back up a dying firm, somewhere downtown. With everything that happened the years before, I figured it might help clear the skies to focus on such a task.”
Alexander stayed silent. So it was his fault, he realized. He looked out the window, eyes dying.
“There was your arrest, and the trial,” George said, voice quiet. “Then my beloved Martha passed. Between watching you poor boy on the stand and preparing for her funeral, it was hard to think of the new semester coming along, especially with the board pushing at my back to try and bury my relationship with you under the sand.”
Alexander’s eyes widened. “Martha passed away?” he repeated.
George smiled softly again. “I’m afraid so,” he told Alexander. “I’m glad you remember her.”
“How could I not?” Alexander repeated, remembering the summer he spent in their country house, a state over, as he did an internship nearby. She would sit down next to him as he worked in the veranda, making him tea and snacks.
George nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he told Alexander. He then hesitated, nodding somberly to himself. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit.”
Alexander’s traits contorted downward, and he shook his head. “I didn’t expect you to,” he said, fidgeting with his hands.
“...Did anyone come to see you?” George asked, slightly hopeful. “School friends, maybe?”
Alexander stayed silent.
“I wanted to visit,” George emphasized. “I did, but the correctional institution was so far, and the firm took all my time, it was—”
“It’s okay, sir,” Alexander interrupted him. “You don’t need to justify yourself.”
They stayed in silence for a long moment, the tall building passing by carelessly as the sun rose down.
“I’m still sorry,” George said. “I think a part of me did not want it to be real. It was easier to stay away,” he explained. “You deserved better.”
Alexander shook his head. “I was convicted, George,” he said in a strained voice. “I made my bed.”
“You were just a kid,” George said. “You were scared.”
“I was twenty-three years old, and I committed a crime,” Alexander exhaled, closing his eyes as his body tensed up. He felt a knot in his stomach twist his organs in a mush.
“They were too harsh on you,” George continued, voice louder. “You had nothing to do in a federal prison, doomed to serve time for the rest of your youth.”
“Well, there’s nothing you could’ve done about it,” Alexander snapped, suddenly turning a glare toward him. “There’s nothing to do about it now. And for your information, if you would’ve really wanted to visit me, you would have done so, but you didn’t because I know that deep down you know what I did was monstrous and you wish to distance yourself from it,” Alexander ranted, suddenly fired up. “And now that I’m in my pretty civilian clothes and walking with the pretense of a free man, it’s easier for you to pick up where you left off and pretend I’m not the convicted felon I am. You can try to heal your conscience now that I’m not suffering within the confines of four reinforced concrete walls, stuck in a yellow overall, but you can’t erase the fact of my actions, George, no matter how hard you try.”
George’s face remained stoic, and Alexander panted, thinking he did not care at all. But George eventually nodded.
“You’re right,” he exhaled. “I can’t erase what happened. I can’t go back in time and offer you the support you needed.”
“No, you can’t,” Alexander said, still breathless.
“What has been done is done,” George continued.
“It is,” Alexander approved sternly.
George nodded again, slow and measured. “But I still want to help you now.”
Alexander stared at him. “You don’t have to,” he said. “I’m fine on my own.”
“You always were,” George said.
He didn’t add anything, and Alexander shifted again on his seat, deeply uncomfortable as his high emotions went down. He realized he had added a new mark on his hand, and cursed himself internally.
After a while, Alexander sighed, shaking his head, “I’ll figure it out whether you’re there or not, sir,” Alexander said, holding onto his knees and looking down. “I don’t need your pity or contempt.”
“And I’m willing to offer neither,” George answered patiently.
“Then what are you offering?” Alexander asked, turning his gaze back on him. “Dinners?”
George stayed quiet for a moment, as he parked near the restaurant he had reserved for them. He settled in his seat, straightening him back, and seemed to think. “I figured I would tell you later,” he said carefully. “Because I realize the implications this decision might have.”
Alexander frowned. “What do you mean? What decision?” he asked hurriedly.
“I can’t make miracles happen,” George prefaced. “Whether this has any long term implications will depend solely on you and your capacity to make a mark.”
“You’ve lost me, sir,” Alexander said, profusely confused. “What are we talking about?”
“I only have so much influence. Out there, you’ll have to hold your own, and I’m aware that won’t be easy.”
“Sir, I’m begging you, tell me what you want from me,” Alexander exclaimed, frustration swelling in his voice.
“I don’t want to give you false hopes,” George settled. “But I might have a job offer for you, at my firm.”
Alexander opened his mouth, blinking, but George went on: “I will need you to go through two rounds of interview with an HR representative, and then, only if you do well, go through a preliminary period to assess your skills and adequacy in the position. I will make personally sure your criminal history and parole obligations don’t get in the way, but the rest is in your hands.”
“Are you…” Alexander started, profoundly shocked. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I— I wear an ankle bracelet and my parole officer could show up at any time, and the other employees, they won’t—”
“You’ve done your time,” George said. “You deserve a level-playing field, and I know you haven’t been getting it. I knew you when you were younger and that, if given the chance, you could make a good addition to our team. Others might not think so at first, which is why you’ll need to prove yourself.”
“George, you know I’m not the same boy you met ten years ago, right?” Alexander asked quietly. “I’ve seen things, and I’ve done things, and my mind doesn’t work the same way anymore.”
“Is it still as sharp as before?” George asked.
Alexander hesitated, mouth lingering open. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I spent five years behind bars. It’s not very intellectually stimulating, besides reading books in the hundreds and writing nonsense in notebooks.”
“Then you kept your brain active,” George shrugged. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to perform well. You have the diploma and, I’m sure, the drive to excel in the position I’m offering.”
“You might regret it,” Alexander warned. “You’ll be on the line if I fail.”
“I don’t think you’ll fail,” George declared confidently. “And neither should you. I didn’t know you as someone who’d quit before giving himself the chance to try.”
Alexander still looked at him, unsure, but George smiled.
“Now, why don’t we go get dinner? I’ve been told the steak here is wonderful,” George hummed, opening the door of the car. Alexander watched him go, and followed after him in a hurry.
A smile drew on his lips as he processed further George’s proposition, and for the first time in years, Alexander felt that mix of nervousness and anticipation that once characterized his life as he used to plunge into the unknown with the confidence of a madman. He wasn’t quite as young or self-assured anymore, and there was now more fear than excitement, but Alexander felt he was finally given something to prove himself against, and he deeply missed such a feeling.