• Index
• Series Outline
• Characters
• Issue #1 Script
• Artwork
• Issue #1 Narrative
• Issue #2 Narrative
• Issue #3 Narrative

The moonlight dodged its way through the bedraggled blinds like a soldier ducking for the last chopper leaving a firefight. It fell across the matted orange carpet and tumbled towards the stained bedspread, where Raphael Riley sat, observing it. He looked at his hands in this light, turned the over, this way and that, as if the moon's illumination would reveal something he was unable to see in daylight. His breath escaped his chiseled form in a slow, deliberate sigh as the night wore on interminably.

Raphael stood up and looked around the solitary room. The creased and worn notepad had long since seen its last sheet of paper leave its grasp, but still it shone the logo of the Snooty Fox and scrolled the address and phone number of the South Central motel across its surface. Unusual blemishes -- bodily fluids that wouldn't wash out, cooking grease that hadn't been cleaned up fast enough -- dotted most of the room's surfaces, and the moulding along the baseboards was cracked and pocked like the roads outside. Riley bit his lip, thinking to himself, "Thing's've been bad, but damn, this is messed up."

He glanced back at the bed, the unfamiliar shape of his body still worn into the laughable padding of the mattress. Again he raised his hands and examined them, reaching over to grab a pen and stab downwards at his right hand. He still was amazed as it smashed against the skin and shattered, leaving no mark at all.

The ringing of the phone sliced through the room's silence like a shuriken. Quickly, he rushed over and grabbed it from its cradle, careful not to break it.

"Who is it?" he asked breathily, his eyes scanning the window for signs someone was coming.

"It's me, Ray," a tired but welcome female voice returned. "I got your message, are you okay?"

Raphael wiped his forehead and sat down. "Yeah, I'm cool, Angela."

"Listen Ray," the voice continued, "I'm your big sister, and I love you, but you know you're stupid, right? How do you expect to live, with everybody and they momma lookin' for you? What are you gonna do if they bust up in there?"

Raphael looked over at the remnants of the pen, lying on the floor. "I don't think I'd have too much problem getting away again."

"What then, Ray? Keep running? You ain't got no plan, and you're gonna need to come up with one unless you wanna end right back in Mule Creek."

Raphael took a breath and thought before he answered. "Ain't no more Mule Creek, Angela."

The phone was silent a beat, and then Angela asked in a soft voice, "What do you mean?"

"I'm not gonna tell you all this over the phone, and I'm scared to go out. Either let it go or you gotta come here and I'll tell you."

"Aight, aight, I'll come over, we gotta figger this out."

"Angela, hold up."

"What?"

"Can you stop at Popeye's and get me, like, a whole lotta chicken? I'm hungry as hell and I ain't got no money."

Angela laughed softly, a sound that was clean and simple, and she responded, "I got you. Lemme make sure Momma's really sleep, and I'll be right there."

• • •

Raphael and Angela sat across from one another on the bed, a slight smirk resting on her cognac colored face, as he devoured piece number eleven of the sixteen in the package.

"Dude, this is the bomb," Raphael managed between bites, his thick fingers nimbly manipulating the intricacies of the wing to extract every bit of meat from the reluctant bones. "Thanks for bringing this."

"You used to eat like a bird, Ray," Angela smiled, running a hand through the kinky curls cascading from her head. "I used to be bigger than you, too. What the hell happened out there?"

"Well, I guess you got time to hear it all," he said, sitting up and wiping grease from his lips, "so I can tell you how it all went down. Now, I know some of this might sound crazy, but I'ma tell you exactly what happened the way I saw it, aight? And don't interrupt a lot, since I gotta try to get my head around it."

Angela nodded wordlessly, setting her brown suede jacket and matching purse aside on the nightstand. Raphael bit back a thought about the surfaces of the room and began ...

• • •

Raphael Riley walked dejectedly from the liquor store, his left arm cradling a brown paper bag. He pulled his hood up and scowled as he walked, still stinging from losing his job. He replayed the supervisor's words over in his head, "With the economy the way it is, we just have to let some people go. We'll give you a good reference, and we had no problems with your work, it's just the way it is ..." Spitting on the sidewalk, he picked up his pace a bit and walked on. He thought to himself, "They knew I was fired when he got there, why they wait until after my shift to tell me?"

About half a block later he saw the car, parked on a side street. The occupants looked like they were reading something on the screen, the greenish reflection lighting up their faces, as the street light's arc fell just short of their front bumper. Raphael looked down at the sidewalk and kept moving, not wanting any more problems today. As his left Puma sneaker left sidewalk and landed on blacktop, he heard the low growl of their engine come to life. Muttering a curse, he kept walking, knowing no other way to play it. Even with his head down, he could see the reflection from their headlights as they rounded the corner.

They pulled up alongside him as he walked, and shone a light on him. His face still stuck in a snarl, he glared into the center of that oppressive cone of luminescence and held his hands out to either side of his body.

"Aight, I don't want no trouble," he said loud enough to be heard. The car stopped, and the policemen got out, hands resting on the butts of their pistols, and one walked closer to Raphael.

"How's it going?" the cop asked. He was a head taller than Raphael, a light skinned Black cop in short sleeves despite the edge to the wind. Raphael looked up at him, his left side blocking some of the spotlight, and took note of the cop's musculature, figgering he could probably run and hit, which made things bad.

"I'm aight," Raphael replied cooly, "what's up?"

"Where you heading?" the cop asked calmly. Raphael could only make out the outline of the partner, radioing in and still watching the conversation carefully. Raphael also glimpsed the name on the uniform, "Baldwin."

"I'm goin' home, man, I just lost my job," Raphael admitted, hoping his bad luck could inspire some sympathy.

Baldwin slowly pulled out a notepad. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said quietly as he scribbled something down. "Been to the liquor store?"

Raphael nodded. "Yeah, I'm old enough."

Baldwin smiled slightly at that, something in his eyes flashing for a moment. Raphael felt this might be over in a few seconds. "What's your name?" Baldwin asked, his notepad still at the ready.

"Ray Riley, well, Raphael. Ray for short."

Baldwin took note and asked, "well, Mr. Riley ... would you step over by the car? Thank you ... Mr. Riley, would you place your hands on the hood of the car? We'd just like to make sure you're not armed."

Raphael consented, having become very accustomed to this sort of thing since moving to LA when he was 16. He looked down at the ground as Baldwin patted him down and the silent partner remained on the other side of the car, watching. When Baldwin was done, he patted Raphael's shoulder twice.

"Mr. Riley, we'd like to take you down to the station for a few questions," Baldwin said calmly. Raphael glanced at the partner -- now the name "Harris" was visible in the dim streetlight -- and back to Baldwin. Sighing, Raphael agreed, letting Baldwin usher him, hand on head, into the back seat of the squad car. As they got in silently and started to pull off, Raphael thought about asking questions but decided it was pointless. This would be over sooner or later, and he'd have to go home and figure out how he was going to pay rent, or if he'd have to move back in with his mother. Raphael stared out the window at the dim houses along the road, somewhat happy for the distraction.

• • •

The detective walked in, a portly Black man in a cheap brown suit, carrying a file and a cup of coffee. Raphael had been sitting in the interrogation room, glancing at what had to be a two way mirror, for about twenty minutes. Thinking back to the hard glares he got when he came in, Raphael guessed whoever they were really looking for was in some kind of trouble.

"My name is Detective Samson," the man said, sitting down. "Can I get you anything?"

Raphael thought to himself, "You can get me the hell out of here," but just said, "naw."

"Mr. Riley -- can I call you Ray? Ray, I'd like to ask you to tell me what happened tonight."

Raphael sighed and started. "I was at work, I used to work for Consolidated Plumbing on Arlington, and I was there until my shift got over at 8. When I was clocking out, my boss came and told me they had to let me go, some shit about the economy or whatever. I walked to the liquor store on 71st, got me a beer, and was walking home when the cops came and got me."

Samson took some notes on a big yellow legal pad -- his handwriting all big swoops and furious curves, but unreadable upside-down and probably not much better right-side-up. "Is that everything that happened tonight, Ray?"

Raphael searched Samson's face, still looking down at the pad, for some sign of what he was looking for. Thinking back, Raphael said, "That's it. Nothin' much goin' on, man."

Samson looked up at Raphael with a cool expression. "You said the liquor store on Manchester was right by your job, right?"

Raphael suppressed a desire to roll his eyes. "No, I said I went to the liquor store on 71st. Manchester is too far to walk for a beer."

"So, you're saying you weren't on Manchester tonight?" Samson asked, a note of disbelief coloring the edges of the comment.

Realizing something must have happened on Manchester, Raphael saw what direction to go. "I was nowhere near Manchester. I live on 69th, my job is close to 73rd ... I had no reason to go there."

Samson's forehead wrinkled in a way that indicated he was mulling things over. He looked down at the pad and changed gears. "What time did you leave work?"

Raphael glanced at his watch, a cheap glittery thing made to look like one you'd see in a Jay-Z video. "I punched out at 8:04, clock said. Ol' boy talked to me for, like, ten minutes, and gave me my last little money in cash. I was prolly outta there a little before 8:30."

"The officers picked you up at 9:04 PM," Samson said, tapping his pad. "Can you account for that forty minutes?"

Raphael thought that didn't sound like forty minutes but ignored it. "I walked to the store. I got me a beer. I looked at the latest issue of The Source for a minute, peeked at the nudie magazines, bought my beer and left. I was walking home when y'all got me. I wasn't walkin' fast because I got no hurry to be nowhere. That's where I was."

Samson sighed and leaned back in his chair. "That's a good story. I think it went a little differently."

Raphael leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "Okay, you was there. How did it go."

Samson leaned in and said, "You left work at about 8:25, 8:30. You were mad. At the end of your rope. Tired of playing by the rules. You started walking fast, and ended up on Manchester. You walked in, walked around a few aisles, grabbed a beer, and when it looked like you were gonna buy it, you pulled a gun on the cashier."

Raphael chuckled, letting Samson keep going. Somebody really messed up, and since it was a Black guy in that general area, he had to go through this drama. Whatever.

"She handed you the money," Samson continued, watching Raphael carefully, "but you were still furious and you shot her. You then ran out of the store, dumped the gun, and our officers picked you up shortly after that."

Raphael started thinking back to all the cop shows he'd seen on TV. They wanted him to incriminate himself, he knew, but he was in the best position in the world, since he actually was innocent. "I don't know why you think I had anything to do with this. I didn't rob anybody, I sure as hell didn't shoot anybody, I don't have a gun and never did, and I was blocks away when you sayin' this shit went down."

"This will go easier on you if you just tell me what happened. Maybe it was an accident, you were a little agitated on the tape. You must not have seen the camera, tucked between the Corvossier and the Southern Comfort," Samson said, leaning back with a pleased look on his face. "We got the whole thing on tape, Ray. Same sweatshirt, hood up like when we found you. Same black pants."

A shiver of worry went through Raphael. People had been sent up on less. The silence in the room had a tangible leaden quality to it, the air perfectly still and without interruption. Ray said, "I got this shirt at Slauson Swap Meet, in the middle of a whole bunch that looked just liike it. Black pants ain't nothin' special. Even if I am wearin' the same clothes as the guy you're looking for, I ain't him. I ain't robbed nobody."

"Had any illicit substances today, Ray?" Samson asked, his expression smug. "You must have been high as hell because not only did you miss the camera, but you missed the shopkeeper's husband, sweeping up a few aisles over. We can see him on the tape, peeking out at you. I've been in here waiting for a tap on the glass, which would mean he didn't recognize you. You're going down for this."

Raphael paused a second and glanced at the glass. They wanted him for this crime ... but ...

"Detective Samson," Raphael said calmly. "Am I under arrest?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked if I was under arrest. The cops who brought me in said they wanted to ask me some questions, and I seen enough episodes of The Practice to know that, unless you wanna arrest me, I don't have to be here. You tryin' to get me to admit to some shit you can't prove. If I'm not under arrest, I wanna leave. If I am under arrest, get me a motherfuckin' lawyer right now."

Samson raised an eyebrow and frowned. He gathered up his folder and stood up, looked hard at Raphael, and left the room.

• • •

"Ray, I know most of this already," Angela protested. "That shitty public defender you got, I was in court watching every day, they sent you up to Mule Creek. Mama still dealin' with that new lawyer on your appeal. What I don't know is what happened after I left you here ... and how you did all that ... and hell, how you got out."

Raphael took a swig from the Arrowhead bottle before saying, "I was gettin' to all that. I wanted to make sure you knew I was innocent, and how they got me."

"Fool, I been kickin' your ass and protectin' you since we was little," Angela chuckled, tossing a pillow. "I knew you was innocent before the phone rang. Now tell me what happened ..."

Raphael stood up and snuck a peek through the blinds. "Well, what had happened was ..."

• • •

The nights at Mule Creek, filled with screams and fitful sleep, were bad. The days were worse. All the stories Raphael heard about prison gangs were true, but they sure didn't recruit much. Raphael was a solo act, which was a dangerous way to be, in a prison. Fortunately, Raphael had always had little flashes of insight growing up -- he'd always start singing a song right before someone turned on the radio, where that song would be playing, or he'd walk by the phone just before it rang. He noticed those slips in time becoming more useful, as he never walked by the wrong corner and narrowly escaped some unpleasant encounters in the shower. For about three months, Raphael was able to keep safe by merely not being around when any dumb shit happened.

The only real problem came from his cell mate, a guy named Sherman Pierson on a twenty year bid for armed robbery, who always felt like he had to be extra hard core. On his second night, Raphael was surprised in his sleep by Pierson holding a pillow down over the back of Raphael's head. Pierson struggled to try and get Raphael's pants off, muttering over and over, "you gon' be my bitch, not the other way around," but Raphael was able to apply his slight size advantage and shove Pierson off. A very brief scuffle went down, and neither man ended up clearly beating down the other. Pierson muttered, "You not worth the trouble, fool," and hadn't bothered Raphael since.

None of his luck could help Raphael on the yard, however, where trouble could walk right up to you and knock you on the ground. At least three or four times a week, Raphael could count on an encounter with a Stormfronter. The Stormfront was the name of the white supremacists at Mule Creek, and on his third day in, Raphael managed to accidentally bump his tray into their leader, six-foot-two inches of mean, David Dillon, in the lunch line. That minor slight meant every skinhead at the facility had Raphael on their short list, and every skin tone lighter than his was a cause for anxiety. The guards were little help -- Stormfront had friends on the outside, it seemed, who funneled cash in to secure preferential treatment. Prison life was one of routine, and more routine, so the regular things Raphael had to do, every single day, continually pushed him into danger. For the three months before the breakout, Raphael could count on at least two chances to get his face dented per week, few of which he could avoid completely.

Raphael was just coming in off the yard when they were bringing what turned out to be the last batch of prisoners into Mule Creek, pleased to have gotten done with the free weights just as Dillon and his boys made an appearance. Looking over his shoulder, he misjudged his step and bumped into a skinny, bedraggled looking Italian kid with some kind of vine tattooed around his arm, one of a stream of orange uniforms parading into the facility. The kid coughed and glared at Raphael, but offered no comment. A commotion rustled Raphael's attention from behind as he saw Dillon walking through the doorway, and Raphael made a sudden move for his work assignment, a door just feet away. Dillon shoved the coughing Italian out of the way as he strode forward, but Raphael was safely talking to a guard supervisor by the time Dillon caught up. Raphael glanced over at the door, and Dillon let slip a hungry grin, held Raphael's gaze a moment, and turned back into the crowd.

It took a few hours for Raphael to notice something was wrong, by then sitting on his lower bunk, reading a letter from his mom. He started to cough uncontrollably for a moment, and felt a funny tingling all over. He stood up, stretched, but still the tingling sensation, like someone brushing feathers over all of his skin simultaneously, persisted. Irritated, he lay down and was already half dozing when they announced lights out.

The horn sounded the next morning for breakfast, and Raphael awoke with a start. That tingling had stopped, but still something was funny, and he couldn't pinpoint it. He swung up and banged his head on the top bunk really hard, which was odd, because he'd never done that before. Rubbing his forehead, he stood up slowly and started to reach for his towel, to shower. He had a flash of something and decided against it, thinking he didn't smell all that bad from yesterday, so no one would probably notice.

That day was kind of weird all around, but passed without incident for Raphael. It was a good thing he hadn't showered, because something weird happened with the water, and everybody who was in there got really sick, with huge boils all over their bodies. Raphael kept glaring down at his shoes, which seemed kind of tight for some reason. There was a weird moment when the guards ran a room-to-room search for somebody who just up and disappeared, practically in front of them. This disappearing guy, some booster called "Fast" Eddie Chase, turned up in the pantry sooner or later, somebody said, stuffing his face like a damned fool. The whole place balanced precariously on a tightrope of stability, struggling to maintain its tense equilibrium of captives and captors.

The next day is when things really went nuts. Dillon and his team went about their regular ritual, shooing anybody away from the weights who didn't conform to their concepts of racial purity, and doing some reps. Dillon himself was lifting a lot more than normal, and the rumor around the prison was that he had gotten a batch of steroids or something. When he suddenly cried out in pain after twenty flawless reps of 300 lbs, none of his comrades knew what to do. The bar descended slowly as he growled, the red grimness off his face a taut mask of agony. Before the bar got all the way down to his tattooed chest, he screamed and pushed, with what looked like a blast of energy hurling the barbell several yards into the air to crash down powerfully several yards away. Exhausted, Dillon had slumped onto the ground long before the four guards made it over to drag him to solitary for making a disturbance.

Eddie Chase turned up missing again, and the guards were crazy until finally a sentry on the watchtower noticed him, mere yards from freedom, already outside the gates somehow. A brief but energetic chase ensued and Chase was dragged back to solitary as well.

During all this time Raphael found himself hungrier than ever -- he traded four cigarettes for two extra dinners and ended up trading up for bigger shoes, two sizes bigger than he knew he was. The top bunk continued to bang his head every time he got up, even though he swore he was ducking. Raphael snuck into the infirmary during a free moment and confirmed that somehow he was four inches taller than he used to be. Raphael laid on his bunk, pushing his brain harder and harder to understand what was happening, and nothing made any sense.

Four days after Raphael's chance encounter with a line of prisoners, he awoke to the sound of gunfire and explosions. He leapt up, again finding the rim of the bunk with his forehead, but somehow it didn't really hurt. Raphael rushed out of bed, not seeing the dent his impact left in the top bunk, and made for the surprisingly open cell door.

People were streaming towards the yard, and Raphael let himself get caught up in that river of human motion. Once there, Raphael saw things he could not believe -- there was a guy who looked like a big lizard, jumping around and throwing people and gym equipment. In the air above, a human figure was suspended in a nimbus of fire, with incendiary spheres randomly flying from his body and smashing into people, walls, dirt. The explosion, Raphael figured, was the cause for the huge hole in the wall where a guard tower once stood. People were rushing out the hole, far too many for the guards to stop, and scattering throughout the desolate terrain. Over the sounds of sizzling flesh, Raphael heard a laugh he recognized, and saw David Dillon near the hole in the wall, literally picking men up two at a time and smashing them together like cymbals. Dillon, the air around him wavy like over a barbecue grill, glistened with the sweat of exertion, the swastika on the left side of his chest rippling as he assaulted victim after victim. Raphael decided, "Today is not the day to die," and snuck around Dillon's blind side and out the gap in the wall, running, running, running ...

Four or five hours later, Raphael finally got tired and stopped to rest in a small wooded area, far from any lights or roads. He had no idea how far he'd gone, and couldn't believe he was able to run so long. His stomach protested its lack of nourishment with great vigor, and Raphael wished he hadn't run so far from everything. Looking up at the sky he figured he'd managed to head south, and figured sooner or later he could find some way to head back to LA. "What else can I do?" Raphael asked himself. "I don't know anybody anywhere else, 'cept back in Alabama. I gotta find a way home, maybe Angela can help me think a way outta this mess. I can't involve momma." Ignoring his hunger and his exhaustion, Raphael got up and started walking.

About an hour and a half later, the outline of a farmhouse appeared on the horizon. Raphael wondered, "are the farm people out here anywhere near as bad as they could be back home?" Carefully, Raphael crept up towards the house, using tall grass as some kind of cover, looking for a clothesline or something that could help him out of his distinctive orange garb. He did see a clothesline, as he got closer, but it was empty. As he got closer, he realized there was no car nearby, no activity at all. Whoever lived here was gone, it seemed. Making a circle, Raphael noticed the name "Ortiz" on a mailbox and felt a pang of guilt. Many Black people he met in California had negative attitudes about Latinos, but he remembered his mom say, "Baby, that's just 'cause they's all treated like crabs in a barrel. Lookit' them -- they poor, the police hate them, they can't ever seem to get ahead, and they got a few stupid politicians always talkin' and never doin' a thing. If they was a little darker and spoke English, they'd be Black!"

Remembering that, Raphael regretted the thoughts in his head, of breaking in and taking things. Still, his need was severe, and he sure as hell couldn't go around dressed like this, unless he wanted to end up right back at whatever was left of Mule Creek. As he walked around to the back door, Raphael signed and took off his shirt, wrapped it around his fist, and smashed the window, allowing him to reach in and open the door.

It was clear, from the second his wide feet hit the rosy tile pattern on the kitchen floor, that this was not a house of abundance. None of the carefully placed dishes on the side of the sink matched one another, and dime store knicknacks decorated the sparse shelves. Raphael almost tiptoed through the small room and into the hallway. He saw a living room, barely larger than the kitchen, with a threadbare couch next to a cracked leather recliner, a 17" TV perched atop a plastic TV tray, perfectly positioned between them. Raphael sighed, walking the few feet to the bedroom.

Inside, he saw a handwoven bedspread with Latinesque image of the Virgin Mary all over its face. An 8" x 10" picture of what was obviously the Ortiz family hung over the bed, illustrating the hard but rewarding life they must lead. Raphael leaned in to examine it. The husband, balding and ponched, with a his shoulders stooped from labor, smiled under his freshly cut mustache as he held his wife, obviously striking in her youth but showing some gray hairs in the black bun carefully atop her head, the plumpness of age and a sedentary lifestyle showing on her frame. Two kids, twin boys from the look of them, grinned at the camera, freshly pressed gray gabardine slacks under matching blue v-necked sweaters, their bowl haircuts as identical as their smiles. Guilt once again smacked at Raphael, forcing him to look away. He carefully opened one dresser drawer, and then another, before he found some clothes. The husband was shorter than Raphael, by a considerable measure, but he'd long since learned how to wear pants down around his behind. He slid them on, and found a sleeveless white T-shirt that was long enough to cover his adapted waistline. Another few minutes turned up a 3/4 length raincoat in a nearby closet. Feeling goofy but less conspicuous, Raphael looked himself over in the mirror on the dresser. "This will get me a little farther," he thought to himself, "but I feel bad about taking from these folk. Maybe I can make up for it later ... oh damn, fingerprints! I gotta get outta here."

Raphael made his way back towards the back door, using his uniform to wipe clean every surface he thought he'd touched. He vaguely remembered TV shows where other things had gotten people caught, but he couldn't be sure what they were. Tolerably pleased with his results, he closed the door quietly behind him, wiped the doorknob well, and headed towards the road with his uniform tucked under his arm. He turned once to note the address, and hoped he could remember long enough to jot it down.

It was dark when Raphael got to the bus station, a small terminal in some one horse town. He looked at the schedule and indeed saw a bus headed for LA, but the fare was more money than his empty pockets could come up with. Raphael got a feeling he should go sit by the bathroom, but didn't know why. He'd long since stopped second guessing the instincts in his head, walked over and took a seat next, jammed in behind an ancient black-and-white coin operated TV.

About ten minutes later, he saw them, a mid-twenties white couple dressed in rough hewn clothes with two-hundred-dollar pairs of sunglasses perched on their heads. He looked them over -- recently purchased Jansport backpacks, designer jeans slightly torn and smudged by travel and wear. They were arguing about something, with the guy apologizing through his close cropped blond goatee, and the girl gesturing angrily at him, her manicure having seen better days. Raphael didn't know how, but as he picked up a discarded newspaper and acted like he was reading it, he somehow understood they were his ticket home.

They took a seat a few places down from Raphael, their agument in full swing. Seems they were taking some kind of "freedom ride," across the country by bus and "getting in touch with the people." She was pretty clearly tired of it all, and he kept telling her about getting to know the real America like it was an old friend. Raphael noticed the LA bus pulling in as this was going on. The woman took off her bandana, turned and glared at her companion, asking if he got a good acquaintance with that waitress at the truck stop in the last town. Bursting into tears, she jumped up and ran for the bathroom. Distraught, the man leapt up and followed her. Raphael furrowed his brow with thought, then noticed they'd left their backpacks on the bench. He glanced towards the women's room door, behind which a full-scale shouting war was in place now, rose slowly and walked past the bags, grabbing one. As he walked towards the sleepy ticket counter, he rooted through the bag and found over four hundred dollars in cash instantly. He grinned, pulled it out, and thought to himself, "they probably have money in her bag." Raphael bought a ticket and quickly boarded the bus.

Fifteen minutes later, as the bus was pulling away, the second backpack was still on the seat and neither of the bohemian wanderers had emerged from the bathroom. Raphael, seated alone, took the time to stuff his uniform in the backpack and rest it between his legs, one strap over his knee. The miles began to fall under him, and the grumbling in his stomach made him wish there had been a cafeteria at that bus stop. His forehead resting against the cool glass of the window, he began to doze, and finally fall solidly asleep.

• • •

The whistle of the hydraulic breaks competed with the driver's voice, amplified by the bus' speakers. "Welcome to LA," the voice said with no welcome, and Raphael glared around. The backpack was still safe between his knees, its contents apparently untouched. He looked out the window and groaned at the darkness enveloping Hollywood, Cahuenga Boulevard somnabulent. He followed the throng of passengers and stepped into the night.

Raphael walked south to Hollywood Boulevard, where a bus roared past him. He thought about it, remembering some busses ran all night, but also thought that there were cameras on busses. He decided to keep walking, since he hadn't felt any signs of exhaustion since running out of hs cell that morning, just a powerful hunger. Before he reached Melrose, Raphael saw a taco stand open late. He checked his cash -- plenty left -- and ordered a huge, greasy feast: seven tacos, four burritos, two orders of nachos and a huge drink, no ice. As he walked along, he inhaled the food, heading east on Melrose, and was scouring the bottom of the bag for crumbs and dripped cheese before he crossed Vine. "I'm still hungry than a mug," Raphael pondered, and resolved to grab more food at the next spot he found.

Raphael walked calmly down Melrose, passing lush green lawns and flashing neon messages of commerce. He was able to make good time and still look unhurried, finding an effortless pace that required none of his attention. Passing a 7-11 near Paramount Studios, a police car rolled past him, the officers inside paying him little attention. Raphael worried a bit about that, but decided to wait before he did anything about it.

By the time he got to Western, he was bored of walking and indifferent to who might see him. He leaned against the stop for the 207 southbound, a bus he was pretty sure ran late, and started rooting through the backpack. He was very pleased to find a baseball cap, a roomy gray flannel shirt and jeans that were probably baggy on their owner, but looked pretty good to Raphael's changed physique. He stopped a moment and thought about that. "I grew four inches in a few days. My hands look bigger. Something happened back at Mule Creek, something to me, and Dillon, and probably some other people too." Raphael glanced around and walked over to an alley, where he quickly changed clothes. Raphael wrapped his prison uniform up in the clothes he'd taken from the Ortiz house and shoved the whole thing into a drain hole, hearing it splash and hopefully end up in the ocean. He walked back to the bus stop and took out a legal pad and a pen from the backpack, scribbling down the Ortiz' address before he forgot, figuring he'd find out what town they were in later. Just as he was shoving the legal pad back in the bag, he saw the telltale yellow quintet of lights that signaled the top of a bus, several blocks down. He pulled the baseball cap over his eyes and checked his money, ready for the long ride south.

• • •

Crumpling the Popeye's bag into a ball, Raphael said, "... and that's about it. I got off at Vernon and walked back up here, since I didn't wanna get off on King, that close to Southwest Division."

Angela leaned back, her expression pensive. "That's some story. What do you think happened to you at Mule Creek?"

Raphael shrugged. "Prolly some secret government experiment, got into the food or something. I saw a news story talkin' about almost all the prisoners in the jailbreak were killed. Still, you gotta figure if I got away, some other folk did."

Angela smiled and nodded. "If a meathead like you can make it outta there, must be damned near a hundred morons got out safely." Raphael frowned at her, then chuckled along. "Seriously, though, what are we gonna do about you, baby brother?"

Raphael looked down at the floor and replied, "I dunno, Angela. Just promise me you won't tell Momma."

"Ray, when she reads the newspaper one of these days, or the phone rings when I'm not there, she'll think you're dead, like they're saying."

"Maybe that's better ..."

"Ray!"

"Ang, I ain't never did nothin' worth anything. I didn't go to college, I can't try and be no real estate agent like you. I couldn't even stick to being a plumber. I'm just a big ol' nothing."

Angela moved closer, so she could look in his eyes. "You gon' make me slap you upside your big fat head, bigger or not. Don't you remember what Momma called us? Her angels -- that's why we named the way we are. That pretty needlepoint by the couch, talkin' about your name, 'Raphael, the shining one who heals,' and all that. You're not a nothing. You're a good man caught up in some bad stuff." She patted his hands, and he nodded solemnly.

"Now, you're staying here tonight and tomorrow during the day. I'll come get you tomorrow night and move you to another motel, maybe that one over off Buckingham. We'll figure this out, all right? You need any more money or anything?"

"I got a hundred and thirty bucks left."

"Okay, that should last you. I'll drop off some more food tomorrow -- your growth spurt probably explains why you're so hungry. Get some sleep and I'll see you before my noon class, aight?"

Raphael nodded. "Be safe, going home."

"I'll ring once."

Angela slid out of the door and Raphael was left with the thick silence draped over his shoulders like a cloak. Maybe sleep was the best thing for him now. He kicked off his shoes, turned off the lights, and took a last peek through the tattered blinds and fell over on the bed, soundly asleep.