Two hours later, Rodney was on the Greyhound half-way to Atlantic City. He squinted through the smudged window at the blinding white dot on the pink 4am horizon, a cool breeze tickling the hairs on his forhead through his cracked window. A bead of moisture rolled south over his chin. A tear? sweat? Rodney couldn't tell. His face felt like leather, numb against the itchy heat of the bus.

Rodney had never been to Atlantic City, didn't know anyone there. The thought of being in a new city all alone with no money or friends made his neck stiffen and tense. It better this was though, he thought to himself, he could start all over.

He glanced at his large thick hands between his legs, forcing a dry swallow through the lump in his throat. Quickly he concealed them, fearful that some stranger might see the dark blue splotches and recognize him.