A man enters the room, flipping through a manila file folder. "Jack Twist?"

"Right here," Jack replies, half getting out of the cheap plastic chair, "Mr. Del Mar and I here were hopin' to talk t'you."

"Lieutenant Ridley. I'd like to speak to you for a few moments, sir, if you don't mind."

"Well, uh…" he looks over at Ennis, who's staring with all his might at his feet. "Sure." Shit, shit, shit. Just 'member you did not come all this way t'have 'im locked up. You'll figger somethin' out. He gets up and follows Ridley into his office, a small space cramped tight with paper work and brown-ringed Styrofoam, his gut churning with anticipation. The whole scene is surreal. Ennis don't belong here. No fuckin' way he belongs here. He repeats these statements in his head, a mantra to ward off the possibilities he won't consider.

Ridley is a man in his fifties, balding a little but not enough to get a sunburn on his scalp yet; he's wearing nice clothes but they're stained with sweat and sprinkled liberally with crumbs. He sets down the file, jots down a few notes in the margins, and then leans back in his chair, giving Jack a very obvious once over, almost skeptical in his evaluation. A fan oscillates on the back file cabinet, circulating the smell of stale nicotine and french fries.

"I know I probably sound like a broken record, but you are Jack Twist?" Ridley asks, scratching his forehead and running his fingers through his budding comb-over.

"Last time I checked. What's this all about, if'n you don't mind me askin'?"

"I sure was surprised t'hear you was here. There's been a lot of confusion around this case, see. That friend a yours—he was real out of it right after the accident. Wouldn't say nothin' 'cept 'Jack Twist.' We thought that was his name. Didn't have no I.D. to show us." The chair squeaks as Ridley leans back, crossing his hands onto his ample belly. "Ain't that unusual after an accident, with the shock 'n all, but this was probably the worst I ever seen. Almost thought he was blind for a few minutes, there, the way his eyes was. We had the meds look 'im over, 'n he was fine; no concussion or nothin', so we sent 'im home after we got his information."

"Sent him home? 'Scuse me if I'm speakin' out a turn… but what in the hell was you thinkin'?" Jack twists his wedding band around his finger, a nervous fidget, suppressing the urge to stand up and pace the room.

"Well, we didn't even figger out who he was 'till we gone to his house the next day. He was supposed to come here the next day for an official statement and when he went MIA we decided to stop by. It was tore up but bad. Door left wide open, furniture everywhere, broken glass. Looked like one hell of a robbery. We put out a missin' persons report for 'im once we checked out who owned the house. Didn't think a lookin' for you, though." He shrugs, a little sheepish. "I feel stupid tellin' ya, though, I didn't think to look for a Jack Twist, sounded like a handle. Just thought it was a name he came up with on the spot."

Jack tries to keep the hope at bay, knowing that if he's wrong the blow will hurt all the more. "…but why'd you let 'im leave in the first place?"

"Why not?" Ridley raises an eyebrow quizzically, "We had no reason t'keep 'im. Nothin' more he coulda told us, anyhow. Pretty obvious what'd happened from the way the cars was laid out."

Jack leans forward, neck bunched up with tension, fingers curled deep into his palms. "So what exactly did happen?"

"He didn't tell you? Thought that's why you brought 'im."

Jack shakes his head, wanting to wrap his fingers around the man's sweaty red neck, wishing he could crawl inside his brain and steal all the memories he wants to see.

"No, he ain't really been talkin'. He tol' me some cock-eyed story 'bout how he kilt his wife 'n kids in a accident." He leans forward, wanting to drive his point home. His expression brooks no disagreement, "I come here so's you can tell me what really happened."

Ridley nearly falls out of his chair, scrambling to keep his balance, feet falling heavily to the floor. "He thinks what?"

Jack nearly screams with the effort of keeping his voice level, frustrated to the point of violence yet held back by the hope gripping tight around his larynx. "He thinks he done it. That he caused the accident."

Ridley straightens up, sitting at the desk properly once more. "Well, hell. He didn't have nothin' to do with it. Fella named Ed Calloway fell asleep at the wheel as far 's we can tell. His Ford slammed head-on into the Chevy. They all died instantly. Mr. del Mar was unlucky enough to catch the tail end of Calloway's car, but he didn't have a scratch on him. Didn't understand why he didn't want to leave the scene, makes sense now though. Wish we'd a known that it was his family. Would a done things a lot diff'rent."

Jack doesn't move a muscle; he can't. The question that's been making him sick since they left the fair finally quiets. I knew he didn't do it. I did. But he couldn't stop himself from glancing over at Ennis on the drive over, questions burned at his throat, the doubts creeping in like dark-edged tendrils. Now it's been replaced by sickening guilt and grief. Fuck, treatin' him like I did when he come to me. Seen his own daughters dead. Jack feels ill with the reality of it; he'd prayed hard, so hard, that there was some mix-up. That Ennis was wrong about it all.

But ultimately, he knows he only cares about one thing. "So he had nothin' to do with it?"

"Nope."

Jack nods, slowly processing the weight of the words, rolling them around and checking for flaws, finding none. "You mind tellin' him that?"

"Let's bring him in here. Guessin' you're not his guardian then? We thought maybe he wasn't quite right in th'head, well—y'know."

"Just a friend. Man needs friends at a time like this."

"Sure 'nough. We'll straighten this all out 'n get his statement on file, then he won't have to deal with us no more."

Jack heaves a sigh. "Best damn news I heard all week."

Last screw in and he swings the door shut, closing fully if not smoothly. The damage in the house was severe; all the possessions had been uprooted as if a storm had raged through. He'd spent most of the evening clearing it up while Ennis slept, arranging the furniture as best he could, throwing all the rotten food out of the fridge, sweeping up the broken glass. The place looked so bare when he was done; anyone could have lived here. A few pictures here and there—he put those away, knowing Ennis would want them later—but nothing of a personal touch.

He cracks open a beer, wiping the dusty sweat from his brow, gulping down the brew, hardly noticing the taste. Washes up as best he can, too tired to take a shower just now; the drives to Wyoming always leave him exhausted, but this one has wrung him out like a rag, squeezed every out every last drop of emotion and left him limp. He heads to the bedroom, walking numb, and nothing sounds better than a bed right about now. Takes off his belt and boots, loosens his shirt but doesn't bother unsnapping it, slips down next to Ennis, placing a hand on his shoulder. Just so's he knows I'm here. He begins to drift to the sound of level breathing, heart beating slow and sonorous. He's hardly conscious when he feels Ennis stir in his arms, doesn't understand why the bed starts shaking, pulls him close instinctually. By the time he opens his eyes, he knows what he will see: Ennis crying, not a sound, not a whisper, just shaking like a leaf in the wind, tears hot on his cheeks and wet on Jack's shoulder.

Jack holds him, biting his tongue; he wants to give more, anything he has to give. But sometimes the hardest thing to give is silence, the hardest lesson to learn is withholding.