Maxine had resigned to the lack of privacy that came with her job years ago, when she first signed up. There were random drug tests, Internal Affairs was constantly sending you to the psychologist to ensure that you weren't on the verge of a mental break-down, and the locker rooms were co-ed. But it was times like these, when she had a cute guy to snoop on, that she was grateful for it.

She was on rotation for the night shift that day, which she didn't mind anyway because that meant overtime. But it also provided her ample time to go to Art's office and locate the personnel files. She grabbed Tim's and paused when Raylan's name jumped out at her, file almost as thick as a phone book. He had been a Marshal for almost twenty years. She snagged his too and walked back to her desk, reading them between emails from various databases that requested certain files be put together, or faxes that were sent with reminders for the office to send a marshal to inspect the federal prison in McCalester at some point. But, those emails and faxes were few and far between at 7 PM in a government building, so Maxine had time to read.

She knew very little about Raylan, despite how much he had helped her in Houston when she was just GL-05, hair still damaged from salt water and mostly unable to sleep at night without the noise of a USN cruiser in the background. She just knew he was a good guy - a little bit rough around the edges, and generally distrusting, but a good guy.

She started with Raylan. Twenty-years ago, joined the marshal's service after getting a degree in criminology from UK. While in Glynco he greatly excelled in marksmanship and investigation, was satisfactory in most other areas except for legal training and first aid, which he barely passed. He did his three years of training to reach GL-09 in Central California, before he transferred to Utah, where he was for 7 years (he got married there, because everything he did was documented), then he went to teach firearms at Glynco for two years, went to Houston for one year, and then went to Miami, then he was transferred here to Lexington.

If Maxine did the math, she could easily line up his one year in Houston with her second year there, then she could line up his time in Miami with her transfer to Seattle for almost two years, then to Mobile for less than half a year, then her own transfer to Lexington.

Maxine then went to Tim's file to try her best at lining up his career with hers and Raylan's, and was stunned to find that Tim didn't have much of a file: GL-07 just because of his military service, but he'd only been in the force 10 months, here in Lexington. She blinked, because that was damn crazy.

She looked at the rest of his file. In 2000, November, just after he turned 18, he joined the Army. He became an infantryman, attended Marine Corps Sniper School, and apparently excelled by Marine standards, which was impressive. He volunteered for Special Forces training and became a sniper for the Rangers almost immediately after he got out of training.

He started out with two tours in Iraq, all the way up to Private First Class when the shit in Afghanistan started and he went to war a third time in a whole new country. He bounced between bases for the next two years, bouncing around from Iraq to Afghanistan to - Whoa, he was in Bahrain when she was stationed there. Granted, he was only there for a few hours before he was flown out to Kuwait, but still. He re-enlisted after 5 years, again bouncing around, but this time mainly between Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Kuwait (though there was a stint in Georgia where his platoon was in charge of training Georgian soldiers). By the end of his career, he was a highly decorated sergeant who had refused a promotion to sergeant major twice. That was in 2010.

He came home and didn't re-enlist, but instead joined the US Marshals service, likely before he could even shake the sand out of his boots. She'd have to ask him what spurred that decision, but she decided that could wait until she knew Tim a little better.

"Holy shit, that's Dave Alvin," Tim said, seemingly surprised. Maxine knew just from one look of his face as he sipped at his beer that he really wasn't all that surprised. She looked back up stage as said man was greeting the crowd. She'd never heard of the guy, but when he started to sing, she could see the appeal. He was old school blues, combined with some rock-and-roll and country influences.

It was Saturday night, the night after Maxine totally invaded Tim's privacy, and Raylan's for that matter, and they were in a little joint called Sally's Hitching Post about fifty miles from Lexington.

"You like him?" Maxine asked, genuinely curious. She wouldn't have pegged Tim as a country music fan.

Tim shrugged. "It's hard to not like Dave Alvin. I mean, for the most part, country music isn't my scene. He's one of the few exceptions." He pulled a long drink from his pint. "It's like a rule; you can't be from Kentucky and not like Dave Alvin."

"I wasn't aware of that rule."

"Of course you weren't, you aren't from Kentucky."

"Neither are you!"

"I pay taxes here, thank you."

Maxine snorted and Tim used his habitual threat-assessment sweep of the bar to appreciate just how pretty she looked in the dim lighting of the bar. She wasn't in anything all that outlandish, and she hadn't put much effort into her hair or makeup it seemed, but Tim found himself liking the look she had going, all nonchalant and casual and confident in it.

But as he continued his sweep of the bar, eyeing the rowdy college kids in the corner for a moment, and eyes lingering on the holster on the hip of an elderly man down the bar, he saw something incredibly unsettling: Raylan was there with Winona. Tim was incredibly confused. He knew Raylan had been seeing a woman lately, because Raylan's clothes had spontaneously started smelling like fabric softener and he had started trimming his nails shorter and shaving a bit better. It was subtle things, but all things Tim knew to be a woman's influence.

But he wouldn't have, in a million years, figured that woman to be his ex-wife.

"Holy shit," Tim muttered before he could stop himself.

"What?" Maxine asked, curious now too. She followed his line of sight. Up a set of steps in a raised portion of the bar, at a tall table, was a couple. Maxine almost didn't recognize him without his hat, but he glanced sideways at the stage and she realized almost immediately that it was Raylan. And he was there with a woman she recognized from Houston.

"Is that Raylan and his wife?" Maxine inquired, looking at Tim and not understanding what his problem with it was.

Tim shook his head. "She's his ex-wife. She divorced him when he transferred to Miami and remarried some Realtor here in Lexington."

"Raylan's ex-wife is having an affair with her ex-husband? Doesn't she know that's just gonna bite her in the ass?" Maxine asked, snorting as she took a long drink of her beer. Tim smiled, mainly because he thought she'd go full on 'vagina loyalty' and supported Winona's infidelity. "I mean, she broke it off with Raylan for a reason, right? And if you make a decision, you gotta go balls out and commit. You don't get to back-out of life!"

Tim leaned over and kissed her, right then and there in that bar, their mouths tasting like beer and Dave Alvin crooning about the Harlan county line. He set his glass down on the bar with a "clack" and wrapped both of his free hands around her hips. She was lean and Tim had expected some fat to grab onto when he grabbed her, but he was met mostly with skin and muscle and the underlying pelvic bones. She let out a little muffled noise of shock or passion or pain or something, before she set her own glass down with a "clack" and a "slosh" as some of the beer spilled over the edge. Her arms went around his shoulders, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck and the other holding on to his trap muscle.

Tim coaxed her lips open with his and before he knew it, they were making out like teenagers.

He pulled away after he realized they were probably making some of the patrons uncomfortable. At least they hadn't started making sloppy noises, he figured.

"Damn it, Gutterson," Maxine said, offering up a breathy laugh through kiss-bruised lips. Tim decided he had a new favorite sound. "You're killing me here."

"Rats, you've discovered my master plan," Tim said, a little out of sorts himself.

"You're telling me this was all a plot to kill me? Did Rachel hire you out for wet work?" Maxine wondered how she could sound so normal, so teasing and playful, after Tim had just kissed her senseless. Seriously, this pair of panties? Ruined.

"I can't confirm or deny that question. I have a murderer-client confidentiality agreement."

"How would you have done it?" she asked, almost bouncing with curiosity. "Arsenic in my beer? Route my car exhaust through the A/C? Potassium shot into my blood stream after you seduced me and left me unconscious?"

Tim snickered at how well she thought most of those out. "I was thinking just a nice, old-fashioned bullet to the head." He pressed his middle and index finger to her forehead, thumb pulled back like a hammer that he snapped down to meet his hand with a "boom" sound effect.

"Ballistics," she said, tutting. "Ballistics would get you, Tim. You'd think that as a lawman, you would know such things."

"Damn, you're right. I'll have to rethink my strategy for next time."

" 'Next time?' " Tim just smiled, because they both knew that there would, in fact, be a next time.

Tim and Maxine made good use of the rest of the night in Maxine's bed, fucking one another into unconsciousness before waking up a moment later to use the bathroom or get some ibuprofen and then going at it again (Repeat until desired level of sexual satiation is reached). Tim hadn't been laid in, what, 4 months? Not since Terri, the 'I-told-you-I'm-divorced-but-I'm-not-really' FBI agent he broke things off with. And, even then, the sex hadn't been that much fun. Sure, Terri had been good, but Maxine had made things light and easy and flirty.

It was actually really ironic, Tim thought. He had pictured Maxine as someone who talked a big game and then been extremely virginal and awkward, but no. This girl was just as casual and confident as she was when she spoke. And, if he was being honest, she was a damn vixen. He had scratch marks down his sides and chest to prove it.

Did he mention she liked to top? Talk about a dream come true.

Tim woke a final time at nearly 5 in the morning. The world outside was just starting to wake if the annoying towhee on Maxine's window was any indication. He wondered if he should leave now, while she was still asleep and cuddled into his side, or if he should wait until she kicked him out. It was the first time in a while he'd felt conflicted about whether or not to get out. The way he saw it, leaving her without an explanation and leaving after she told him to scram were both equally undesirable - equally awkward and sure to make the work day tense.

He reached a hand over, careful not to disturb Maxine, who was sleeping peacefully with her head on his stomach, just below his rib cage, and her arm limp across his hips. Her legs were tangled with his, icy feet pressing against his shins and making his leg hair stand up.

His fingers hit her phone and he grabbed it, checking the time she had the alarm set for: 6:30. She would be asleep for another hour and a half if he didn't wake her as he left. The only reason he decided that he really did need to leave was because he needed a shower and a change of clothes and hair gel and breakfast and coffee. He sat the phone down and Maxine hummed in her sleep, shifting her torso so she was flopped onto her back, bare chest exposed to the world and hair fanning out underneath her head like her own, reddish-blonde rendition of a peacock's tail.

Tim sighed and untangled his feet from her icy ones, sliding out of bed and grabbing his clothes from last night. He figured he could get a cup of coffee here, take a shower, get dressed, and get home to change out of last night's clothes, gel his hair, get some food in his system, and then get his ass to work.

He pulled on his boxers and jeans from last night, padded barefoot down the hall, silent as a hunter to the kitchen, which was just starting to light up with the sunrise. He had to admire Maxine's place - she had herself way more put together after a month of living in Lexington than he did after 10. But, then again, she probably had this whole 'relocation' thing down to a science. His re-locations in the Army had been simple: grab your bags, a photo or something, and get on a plane. No furniture needed, no clothing needed. Civilian relocation? That was a whole different basket of oranges.

He started up a pot of coffee - Maxine bought the good kind of breakfast blend, not the shitty stuff the office did - and searched the cabinets for mugs. He found one in a cabinet just above the pot and poured himself a cup. He let it sit and cool while he silently moved back to Maxine's room to grab his shirt. He paused when he noticed her still spread out over the mattress, breathing slow and even and deep, breasts and feet all exposed to the air.

He walked over and covered her up a bit better, grabbing a blanket they must've knocked to the floor last night to drape over her feet before he went back to the kitchen to have his coffee before he got a shower.

"Well, good morning, sunshine," Raylan greeted with a smile as Tim walked into the office that morning. He had left Maxine's house at almost exactly 6 and managed to get some breakfast and hair gel and a change of clothes from his own apartment before he had to come here. He had texted Maxine at about 6:34 or some shit explaining why he had to leave. She just responded with a sort, laconic:

I get it

No smiley face, no punctuation, no nothing. Just: 'I get it.' Was she pissed? Was she depressed? Had he hurt her feelings by leaving? Hell, he didn't know!

God, it was too early in the morning to be worrying about problems he probably didn't even have.

But, still, Raylan's greeting had bewildered Tim. Was his worry that evident on his face? Or did he just look shitty and Raylan was being ironic? Tim looked down at himself to check and be sure that his shirt wasn't wrinkled and he didn't have a stain on his pants. He glanced back up to the man about a decade his senior for an explanation.

"Don't try and bullshit me," Raylan said, smirking. "I know the morning-after glow. You pick up a girl in a bar somewhere?"

"Something like that," Tim said, curtly, hoping Raylan would quit this. He didn't particularly like the role-reversal. Usually it was Tim getting under Raylan's skin, and Tim almost - almost - felt some sympathy for the man he constantly badgered.

"Really? Was she about yea tall, long, curly red hair? Pretty as a September peach?"

Tim stared at Raylan through the glass over the top of their cubicles.

"I take it your date with Maxine went well, then," Raylan said, smirk not fading - in fact, Tim thought he saw it get a little bigger. "And don't try to deny it, you smell like girly shampoo."

Tim went to say something. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say, anyway, when Art suddenly called for the two of them.

"Raylan! Tim! Get in here!"

Saved by the Art, Tim thought, relieved for a second, before his brain kicked into over time. Wait, this could go horribly. Raylan could rat Tim and Maxine out - destroy the possible romance before anything more could build. Tim had no idea what the Marshals Service stance was on relationships between coworkers, but he was sure it wasn't a good one.

Tim could see why the stance would be a negative one: If he started getting feelings for Maxine, getting protective, it could interfere with his job... Hell, it could interfere with her job, too! Maybe he should call this whole thing off before he had the chance to get protective like that.

'And if you make a decision, you gotta go balls out and commit. You don't get to back-out of life!' Maxine's words rang out in Tim's head. Last night, they had just spurred him to make a move. But this morning, they were spurring him to try and keep this whole thing from unraveling for as long as he could.

Tim grabbed Raylan's elbow as he swaggered by, jerking him harshly to a stop. Raylan stumbled, off-balance and confused, giving Tim the universal facial expression for 'what the hell, bro?'

"Don't tell Art about Maxine and I," Tim pleaded lowly. He was almost tempted to ad 'or I'll start talking about you and Winona' but he figured karma would take care of that soon enough without Tim's help.

"Really, Tim?" Raylan replied, one of his eyebrows arching. "You really think I'd be that stupid?"

It was Tim's turn to give his coworker and incredulous look. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"You two!" Art barked again, standing now, glaring at them through the glass of the fishbowl. "Hurry up!"

Tim gave Raylan one last serious look before he let the man go and followed him into Art's office, sitting down in the chair furthest from the wall. Tim was relieved when Art didn't shut the door because that meant they weren't in trouble. Not that Tim really had any sort of behavior that would warrant a lecture from Art, but maybe Raylan had done something that had tangled Tim's name up in it.

"I just thought you'd wanna know," Art said, dropping a file onto his cluttered desk. "AUSA determined that the shooting of Jess Timmons was good."

Tim was stony faced. Was there ever really any debate about whether or not that asshole needed to die?

"No surprise there," Raylan commented, echoing Tim's thoughts.

"Hell of a shot," Art complimented, and Tim looked up at his chief. "Did you ever think about what might've happened if you'd missed?"

There would be a dead woman, dead fetus, dead Jess Timmons, and likely an injured marshal on the scene? Tim thought bitterly, kind of offended by what Art was saying.

Tim dropped his hand down from where he was smoothing out his hair. "I can't carry a tune." He felt himself kind of smile as he remembered his drunken attempts at doing so last night and Maxine's laughter. "I don't know how to shoot a basketball, and my handwriting is, uh, barely legible. But I don't miss."

Art looked between the two of them, a slow smile creeping onto his face. "All right, that'll do it." Tim and Raylan went to leave, but when Art called Raylan back in to stay a minute, Tim wheeled around, silently begging Raylan not to say anything. Raylan didn't see him, or if he did, he didn't acknowledge Tim's pleading gaze. Unless that throat-clearing Raylan did was him agreeing to Tim's request.

Tim sat down at his desk, somewhat tense. God, he hoped Raylan didn't say anything. He was starting to regret last night, because if anyone at the office found out, he'd probably wind up shipped off to the Juneau office. Maybe Art would have just enough mercy to recommend him for transfer to Guam. Oh, no, wait, Puerto Rico would be a good transfer. Shit, maybe he'd rat himself out just so Art would transfer him to Guam or Puerto Rico.

Tim tilted his head that way in an attempt to hear what they were talking about. He could barely hear anything over the ringing phones in the office until Art's voice rose.

"Two people, out having beers, seeing music?" Tim felt his pulse speed up. Shit, had Raylan ratted him out?

"Let's just forget it," Raylan insisted, headed for the door.

"So you were out with somebody, and Tim happened to be there." Thank God, he was just grilling Raylan... Did Raylan tell him about Winona? Well, he must not have explicitly mentioned it was Winona, because Art said 'somebody.'

"Could we not? Just..." Raylan trailed off. Tim glanced up as the door to the bullpen opened and Maxine walked in.

"I suppose it could be Rachel," Art muttered. "Are you sleeping with Rachel?!" Tim found the idea almost laughable. Maxine approached Tim's desk and he held up a coffee for her, eyes trained on the wall behind her as he kept listening in on their conversation.

"No," Raylan replied.

"I don't guess Ava's looking to spend time with you. And I think I would remember if it was me."

"You done?"

Tim was nearing stitches as he fought to keep his calm. Maxine gave him a questioning look and Tim held up a finger as if to say he'd tell her later, once he caught the rest of the conversation. Maxine just smiled at the look on his face.

"Unless of course, you roofied me," Art pressed. "Did you roofie me, Raylan?"

"Goodbye, Art."

"Was it Maxine? 'Cause you and I both know that you're robbing the cradle there."

"Goodbye, Art," Raylan pressed. Tim smirked again, because he knew Raylan wasn't sleeping with Maxine.

Tim snickered as Raylan and Art walked by. Maxine approached him soon thereafter. "So, what was that about?"

"Well, Raylan guessed about you and me because I smelled like girly shampoo," Tim said quietly.

"I knew that bottle felt lighter this morning. Thank you for the coffee, by the way."

"No problem." He wondered if she noticed the second blanket. "You might want to get your blood circulation checked out."

"Why's that?"

"Your feet were fucking glacial this morning."

She snickered and Tim sighed, not looking forward to today's workload and simultaneously relieved that his bailing hadn't made things awkward between him and Maxine. "I got to go deliver a subpoena in Versailles, and then some guy in Mount Sterling missed his court-date, so I gotta head down there."

"Yeah, I've got some subpoenas to deal with too, and then I'm on transport detail later."

"Who're you transporting?" Tim asked.

"Guy committed eight counts of grave desecration. I'm bringing him here for his court date."

"Huh. Be careful with that one. Never know what he might dig up."

Maxine stared at him for a second, smiling. "Cute." And then she walked off to go deliver her subpoenas.

She came back in about the same time as Raylan, ready for her prisoner transport, to see the office in chaos. She had taken the stairs up to the office, not too keen on being in an elevator when she'd been in her car all day.

"What's going on?" Raylan asked, walking over to Rachel, who was pouring over her desk with the Chief and Tim nearby.

"Got a call from a receptionist at the halfway house. My brother-in-law Clinton violated parole," Rachel explained.

"Your brother-in-law is on parole?" Raylan asked, pulling that eyebrow-thing he did when he was confused.

"Long story."

Tim jumped in to Rachel's rescue. "Apparently, Clinton beat the shit out of his program manager and took off."

Maxine took the guy's file from Tim, silently assessing his threat. Murder, drugs. Huh.

"We need a team to lock up Nick's school," Rachel cut through Maxine's trance. She glanced up to hear Art say, "And we will, but you're not taking lead on this one."

"But chief," Rachel looked hopeless and dejected. Maxine felt for her. She could understand how Rachel thought it was unfair. Raylan got to deal with personal cases all the time, but the instant she wanted to go and deal with something close to her, it was under a glass case and put just out of reach.

Maxine's prisoner transport had to be handled, and it took about two hours to collect him and bring him to the court house. She was just in time to get back in the elevator with Rachel and her nephew Nick. He was a smart kid, that much Maxine could tell just from his eyes. But there was some sadness there too. He was quiet after she introduced herself, but the moment he was through the bullpen door, he made a bee-line for Tim.

"Tim!" he greeted, excitedly.

"Hey, squirt," Tim greeted, smiling (a genuine smile, teeth and everything) at Nick. "Happy birthday."

"You got a present for me?"

"Your present is that I don't wrestle you to the ground right here and embarrass you in front of everybody."

Maxine smiled at the two of them and Tim and Nick conversed for a while quietly. Rachel turned to ask Maxine a question and then noticed her gaze on Tim and Nick.

"Nick loves Tim. Back when Tim was a newbie here, I invited him to my mom's for Sunday dinner. Nick took a shine to him - so did my mom," Rachel told her, even though Maxine hadn't asked.

"It's hard to imagine why," Maxine joked. Rachel looked at Maxine, nodding and giving a disbelieving, 'Mm-hm.' Maxine quickly realized: Rachel knew.

"Rachel. Don't tell anyone." Maxine's voice was stern, but she knew if Rachel did tell, she wouldn't really do anything about.

"Don't tell anyone what?" Rachel asked innocently.

"Rachel..."

"I won't. Okay? I just want you to know I think you're in this a little early. You're new to town, you're lonely, and Tim is the only person you've felt like you've connected with. I just want you to be prepared that it might blow up in your face. And if it doesn't, then good for you two."

Maxine was offended, but she tried not to be. She understood Rachel's stance. You were supposed to form friendships and relationships when you didn't need them, so they would be genuine. There wasn't much conversation afterwards, just Tim, Rachel, and Maxine trying to track down where Nick's dad might be, with bursts of Nick asking Tim what sort of criminal he thought Rachel would marry.

"Frauds," Maxine piped up. "Sugar daddies. What more can a girl ask for?"

Rachel snorted. "How about a clean record and no tattoos?"

"That's gonna be hard to find in a federal criminal database," Tim commented, causing Nick and Maxine to laugh. Tim smiled, glancing up at Rachel as if to say 'tell me I'm wrong.'

Rachel and Raylan had disappeared to check on Rachel's mother who was, at the moment, unreachable. That left Tim to entertain Nick while Maxine attempted to get the paperwork for that last transport done, as well as confirm that she had delivered those subpoenas. Nick had decided, though, that Tim too familiar and uninteresting to be worthy of his attention. Maxine was, in Nick's eyes, shiny and unfamiliar and new. So, he stationed himself beside her desk and talked.

"You're really pretty," he started out with.

Maxine laughed. "Thank you. I'm a little old for you, though."

"You know, today's my birthday."

"I know. But I'm still too old for you."

"How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-nine."

"That's only seventeen years of difference."

"Yeah, but by the time you're eighteen, I'll be forty-seven."

"And I bet you'll still be pretty!"

Maxine heard Tim snort over from his desk and she looked up to glare at him. What? He didn't think she'd still be pretty at 47? She'd be a little saggy, for sure, but she'd probably still be bangable. Like Meryl Streep or Julie Andrews. And she knew Raylan, nearing his 50s, still managed to get laid on a fairly regular basis.

"You got something to say, Gutterson?" she demanded as her phone rang. Tim shook his head and Maxine turned to look at the number, not recognizing the number but recognizing the Lexington area code. She thought there was a chance it could be Rachel's brother-in-law, Clinton, so she pulled up the triangulation program on her computer before she picked up the phone.

"Hello, US Marshals Service. This is US Deputy Marshal Maxine O'Nan in Lexington, how may I direct your call today?" she said, giving Tim a look that said 'what the hell am I even doing?' What was she doing? She was just giving away her name and location over the phone on the off chance the caller was Clinton?

"Where's Rachel?" he demanded.

"US Deputy Marshal Brooks is not in the office at the present moment," she said, purposely avoiding the contraction 'isn't' just to make the sentence longer. "I can, however, take a message for you. If you'd like."

"Tell her I want to make a deal."

"What sort of deal, sir?"

He was silent for a moment and she thought she lost him, so she kept talking.

"Just so I can be specific in my memo."

"I just want to see my son."

"And your son's name is...?"

"Nick."

"And who do I say is asking for this deal?"

"Her brother-in-law." And the line clicked dead. Maxine swore when she noticed the program hadn't fully calculated his location. The call had been shorter than two minutes. She had a general area in the downtown Lexington area, but that was a whole lot of heavily trafficked, heavily populated areas. There were too many possibilities to narrow down without alerting Clinton to their intentions.

Tim had joined her at her desk, swearing when he saw her computer screen and realized the same problem she had. He pulled out his phone.

"I'll try to reach Rachel," he told her. "You give Raylan a call."

"And tell him what? We don't even know where he is!"

"Well, we -"

"Hey," Nick said, voice cutting through the tension like a snow plow. "That's Billy the Kidzone!" He got some odd looks and he smiled sheepishly as he sat back down in his chair and looked at his hands. "I just used to like it there. Mom would take me there for my birthday when I was little."

Maxine and Tim tore their gaze away from the embarrassed twelve year old, both registering the implication at the same time. They just found Clinton's location.

Maxine called the restaurant as Tim, Rachel, and Raylan made their way to the downtown area. Maxine couldn't just leave Nick unattended with an escaped parolee on some sort of demented mission to find him, so she took him down to the cafeteria for lunch. The duo sat where Maxine could have her back to a wall and could watch the flow of traffic. Nick seemed used to not being able to have the seat against the wall, and Maxine assumed it was because Rachel had the same habit.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

"Ask what?" Maxine asked, confused by the question coming out of the boy's mouth. She was in the middle of a mouthful of chicken cesar salad when he spoke, and she had to cover her mouth with her hand to prevent food from flying across the table.

"Why my dad went to jail," he replied. He looked a little insecure and upset, so Maxine swallowed her half-chewed mouthful and chased it with a swig of water before saying, "Well, do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

"Then I won't ask."

"People usually ask anyway."

"People are dicks."

Nick giggled at the look on Maxine's face. Like he'd never heard the word 'dicks' before. He was a middle schooler, after all. Every day people were dropping the f-bomb and trying to act mature by being vulgar like that.

"Look, Nick," Maxine said, voice kind of ringing with the underlying theme of 'I understand.' "I had a parent who wasn't exactly the best person. Granted, my mom never killed anyone, but..." She shrugged. "I understand. Hell, everyone can understand. No one's family is perfect. People just like to pick on the kid who has the family that isn't perfect and it's plain to see. It makes them feel better about their own home lives."

"It sucks."

"I know." And she did. "You got a phone?"

"Duh."

"I'll give you my phone number, and any time you need to talk, I'm there, alright? I know, it's not the manly thing to do: Talking about your problems is supposed to be this big thing. But I'm telling you, Nick, a horse can't outrun it's own tail." He stared at her, not really sure what she meant.

"If you need to talk, or if you need someone to bail you out of jail, or if you need someone to buy you an RC helicopter so you can play a prank on the school bully -" That got Nick to smile and Maxine smiled back. "I'm there when your Aunt Rachel can't be, alright?"

He nodded, smiling at the new addition to his support system, and handed over his phone for Maxine to input her number.

"We've got Clinton in holding," Tim said over the phone. Maxine and Nick were still in the cafeteria. With a bit of flirting, Maxine had convinced one of the guys working the lunch line to whip up a batch of cupcakes for the kid, who had been denied any semblance of a normal birthday. They were in the middle of the batch of cupcakes now, down to six of the twelve. "Rachel wants you to bring Nick up to talk to his dad."

"Sure, I'll bring him up once he finishes his cupcake."

"Cupcakes? Ask him to save me one."

Maxine snorted. Tim and his bottomless stomach.

"Nick," she said after she hung up. "Let's take these to go. Rachel and them are back in the office."

"Oh, alright," Nick said, finishing up that one cupcake. Maxine picked up the Styrofoam box with the last six cupcakes in it and escorted Nick up to the office. Once inside, just before she passed him off to Rachel, she stooped down and gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. "Happy birthday," she said, giving him a hug. He hugged her back and then let her go to join his aunt as they walked towards the holding cell.

Maxine walked over to Tim's desk, which said man was seated on. She popped open the box and offered up the cupcakes as she sighed. Tim took one of the cupcakes and stuffed it into his mouth.

"I need such a strong drink," she muttered, thinking of all the childhood problems Nick had her remembering.

"Tell me about it," Tim replied through a mouthful of icing and red velvet.

That strong drink came around 7 o'clock, when most of the sun's rays were blocked from the courthouse windows by Lexington's skyline. Maxine, Raylan, and Tim were all snugly installed on the couch, while Rachel was seated in one of the chairs near Art's desk. Their boss was doling out equal portions of bourbon into each glass. It was silent and contemplative as he did so, like watching an ancient tea ceremony.

Art passed out glasses and stood behind his desk. It was like that ended the ceremony and the silence. Rachel began to speak.

"When I was Nick's age, before my father's cancer," Rachel spoke, "I thought we were the Cosbys. My parents had good jobs, there was a feast on the table after church on Sundays. Shawnee and I would ride our Huffys around the neighborhood. We had good hair, and made straight A's. Except, as my mother reminds me... that wasn't reality. The jobs weren't all that good, and my father was never a happy man even before he got sick. And Shawnee was smoking pot at 9 and running away to smoke heroin at 15." Rachel took a big gulp of her bourbon at that point.

Raylan spoke. "I never bore any illusions my family was the Cosbys."

Art commented quickly, "Your family wasn't funny." Maxine smiled a little at that, admiring the way Art tried to air out the tension in the room. But the attempt was futile: With this many bad childhoods in one room, any and all attempts at lightening the mood were useless.

"At least you got to shoot your father," Tim commented, and Maxine thought he sounded rather bitter. "Mine had the nerve to die before I got back from Basic with skills and a loaded weapon."

"You didn't miss much. I thought it was gonna be way more fun than it was."

It was silent for a moment.

Maxine broke it. "When I was nine, my mom started calling me fat. I mean, she was right, and it sounds pretty girly but still. When you're nine that sort of shit really embeds itself in your brain." She took a big gulp of whiskey and refrained from telling the rest of the story, though it was plain to everyone else in the room that there was more to it. And boy was there; her descent into extreme diets at ten, and bulimia at 12. She never had her period, and she started fainting. It wasn't until the school nurse contacted CPS that she got any sort of help. That help came from the government paid therapy sessions. She knew there was nothing wrong with her, but getting fed properly and getting a self-esteem boost were practically out of the question in foster homes where she was basically the house slave, working for table scraps.