The light of the full silver moon shined through the barred window of the small room. In the corner of the jail sits a young man upon the dirt floor with a pack of matchsticks in his hand; lighting matches one by one. Each tiny flame brought a spark of light within the moonlit cell. He held the burning stick within the grasp of his thumb and forefinger, letting them burn until the small flame hits his fingertips to which then he flicks the match outside his cell door. The pen Lance found himself in was a minimal holding facility located in god-knows-where, Kansas. Morning comes, he would be hauled off to Kansas State Industrial Reformatory, where he, for the next two and a half years, was supposed to call home. Lightly shaking his head with a sneer, he lights another match, lets it slightly tinge the calloused skin of his fingers before he once again and tossed it out of the bars of his cell.

"Boy, trying to burn down the jailhouse won't save your soul from burning in hell," stated the grey-haired man that came sauntering into the small room outside the cell. Each step he took seemed to shake the old wooden floors that tiled the floor outside his jail cell. Taking a seat, the sheriff placed his feet upon a dusty desk and sat the cowboy hat that was once held in his hands upon his balding head. The worn out wood of the squealing and cracking as he pushed his weight onto the back legs of the chair.

"Just got word that you, young man, will be spending the rest of your glory years in the state."

A scoff came from within the poorly lit cell, "Now, sweetheart if you're trying to scare me at least tell me something I don't know." The shattering of a glass bottle sent dark green shards scattering across the floor of the cell as the bottle collided with the iron bars that held the young man captive. The imprisoned man's words had apparently struck a cord.

"Keep it up McClain, talking like that won't do you any good for the next sixteen years."

The wooden legs of the chair suddenly screeched against the wooden floor as the Sheriff stood and moved the chair to in front of the cell. "Listen here, Lance..." The sheriff said, his rugged voice almost soft. "My boys told you that you needed to steer clear Kansas," the Sheriff took off his hat and placed it on his lap, "But not three months later, you are back! Now... the judge did not like that one little bit" The sarcastic tone dripped off of each word that the Sherrif said. "That along with the fact that you broke into that general store… Well…," with a smirk and a hearty laugh the sheriff placed his hat back on his head.

The flame from the match that was held between two fingers scorched Lance's fingers as his mind held onto every word the Sheriff had spoken.

State...

...judge...

... Sixteen Years...

Sixteen years... Sixteen years... Sixteen... Sixteen years.

As if all the sudden, all the warmth escaped from the jailhouse. The small flicker of flame that was held between Lance's fingers was a mock at the warmth that the young man once felt. Before he even had the chance to cherish the minuscule heat it brought, it fell to the ground. With shaky hands, he plucked another match out of the tin, but no matter how many times he tried to scrape it against the concrete walls, it would not light.

The situation that got him held captive within the walls of this small cell was not ideal. Lance owed some money to the type of the people who nobody ever should take a loan from. Fear is what drove him to come back to Kansas. The fear of being skinned alive with a rusty knife from that nasty woman's debt collectors. At the worst, he thought if he was caught that he would spend at most two years in the pen. This to avoid the ever-present chance of death- sounded like a natural choice to make.

The boy suddenly felt snared and deceived; his breath quickened, his mouth dried and his chest tightened. The world seemed to be racing by, and everything felt as if it was in motion, but Lance was the only thing that sat still. Eyes fell shut as he pushed his head against the corner of his jail cell.

His cell was too small... too small... too small... too fucking small.

Acidic bile threatened to crawl up his throat as he pulled his knees up to his chest in vain attempts to make himself smaller in the confined quarters. With closed eyes, he still felt the spinning of the world outside of him; his heart pounded within the confined space of his chest.

"Hey-hey, Sheriff… got any more of that beer you threw at me?" Lance laughed with a slight stutter... his once shut eyes, opening as he brought his head to his knees. It was when he looked up that all feeling drained from his body, and the spinning world came to a screeching halt. The Sheriff remained sitting upon the chair speaking words that were muted out by the ringing within the young man's ears. Lance's eyes were wide with complete shock as he focused on what was taking place behind the constable. The high shine from a polished pistol was held inches away from the cowboy hat that sat upon the Sheriff's head. The hand that held the gun wore black gloves. Lance quickly trailed his eyes up from the black glove that held the gun firm within it's grasp to the face of the one who was carrying the weapon. Familiarity was found within the tired dark eyes that were partially hidden behind the overworn, cowboy hat that sat upon the man's head.

"This is how it's going to go," The words came out brass and harsh, shaking the jailed male from his dazed state. A small jolt came from the Sheriff as the barrel of the pistol hit the brim of his hat, knocking it clear off his head. The cold metal from the gun pressed against the side of his wrinkled temple and the once god-like Sheriff whithered down within his seat.

"You are going to stand up, unlock this cell and let out my friend here, you see?" He stated pointing down at Lance with his gun. "Then you, sir, will hand me the keys, step inside the cell, and I will lock you in there." The mystery man said, the tone of his voice was tired, yet there was a hint of something that made it seem like this man was pleased with himself.

"Sound like a plan?" A sound came from the lips of the man, laugh-like in nature, but it was almost too coarse to even be recognizable as one.

Gritting his teeth, the Sheriff slowly stood up from the chair in which he had peacefully sat a few moments ago. Raising one hand as if to show that he surrendered. The other hand slowly lowered to the down to the pocket of his jeans. Lance couldn't take his eyes off of the scene that was unfolding outside his jail cell, His breath was trapped in his throat as he watched every movement the two men made with intense anticipation. The very second that the jailed man's eyes reached the area to which the Sheriff was reaching the once captive breath was released in a hurried rush as he tried to form the proper words. Any words that would warn the man that was trying to help Lance escape.

A deafening ring sounded throughout the jailhouse as the pistol shot a single bullet out of the polished barrel, into the skull of the Sheriff. Eyes wide and blurred by the room spinning around him once again, Lance saw the body of the Sheriff fall limp, tumbling down to the dusty floor below the wooden chair. He watched as the blood began pooling around the opened-eyed man who now lay upon the very same ground in which Lance sat. The sound the jail door rattling open was what finally caused Lance from removing his eyes from the now dead man's face.

"Let's go," The man said, gun still held within his left hand. In a hurried motion, the once sitting young man stood and walked to the iron bars of the door which must have been unlocked while he was in shock with the event that had occurred. He carefully stepped around the body of the man, trying not to step on the hand that continued to rest next to the gun holster on his hip. The man in front of him said something to Lance, but the words were lost to him as he stared at the door that leads to his tangible freedom. The other man seemed not to notice as he proceeded towards the door, and turn to face Lance, "We don't got all day" he said and walked out the door.

With a final glance at the Sheriff's dead body, Lance walked towards the hat that once sat upon his head. With a shaky hand, he picked it up by the brim, turned towards the dead man and placed it over the Sheriff's face; covering his still open eyes.

As Lance left the jailhouse, the metallic stench of blood seemed to follow him with every step he took, although he couldn't help but feel relieved at the sight of an open area. The mysterious man sat within a running car, a Chrysler Model B-70 that was the color of the summer sky. With reluctance, Lance walked up to the passenger side of the vehicle. "Get in, we got a long drive ahead of us," The man within the car said not taking his eyes off the dirt road in front of him. "So... what can I call you... besides lifesaver?" Lance joked with a stale laugh as he opened the door and slid into the seat, shutting the door with a muffled slam. The engine shifted into gear as the vehicle began to drive off from the jailhouse. The speed was much more than Lance had anticipated, he, of course, knew this model of car, its the car that men dreamed of. Although he never imagined it could gain speed like it was currently doing, it easily shifted from zero to at least 25 in a matter of seconds. Dust was sent flying into the air, forming a cloud as the car sped down the dirt roads. Minutes had passed with no answer to Lance's question, and the young man had almost forgotten that he had even asked in the first place when a coarse cough came from the other man's throat followed by a few simple words.

"You can call me Keith."