Nicholas's Story

Nicholas’s Story

Peter K. Young

 

Nicholas’s Story

Copyright © 2025 by Peter K. Young

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Street Smart Resources

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Design Kat McGee (coversbykat.com)

June 2025 | 1^st Edition

Chapter 1

 

Nicholas Carter was a child of the projects. Cheap apartments where the elevators and stairwells smelled of urine and weed and the litter of discarded needles that made going barefoot foolish. Neighborhoods where gunshots and police sirens sounded more regularly than alarm clocks.

His life hadn’t always been that way. His mom, Janet, had once been a skilled accountant. Their life had turned hellish by happenstance when he was nine years old. Her Volkswagen was rear-ended by a pickup at a stoplight.

No harm ordinarily. The car was totaled, but she had insurance. The bigger problem was the chronic back and neck pain afterwards. Again, no problem ordinarily. She had health insurance through her employer. And the pickup driver had insurance, so she was able to get treatment. A nice doctor at her HMO proscribed pain medication; a new type that he assured her would work wonders. And the good news was that it wasn’t at all addictive. So Janet went to the pharmacy with her prescription for OxyContin and got it filled.

It worked great until months down the road when the nice doctor became concerned that she might be getting addicted. He stopped her refills.

That was when the downward slide began.

Their nice house in the suburbs was downgraded to an apartment when she couldn’t afford the payment and the cost of black-market Oxy. Their nice apartment became not so nice when she lost her job because she had switched to heroin and got caught shooting up in the ladies’ room at work.

The slide accelerated.

The little family slid down into the projects. By then sweet middle-class Janet Carter was a full-blown junkie doing things that she never dreamed of to get that little packet of H. What Janet didn’t know or probably didn’t care was that street heroin doesn’t pass any quality control standards—along with the usual powdered milk this latest batch was cut with a tiny bit of fentanyl to give a bit of an added kick.

Thirteen-year-old Nicholas woke up one morning to find his mother on their dilapidated green couch well into rigor mortis.

***

The social worker had tired eyes and a coffee stain on her blouse. She barely looked at Nicholas as she filled out paperwork, her pen scratching against forms that would determine his fate. There were no relatives willing to take him. No family friends stepping forward. Just another case number in an overwhelmed system.

“Riverdale Group Home has an opening,” she mumbled, more to herself than to Nicholas. “It's not ideal, but there's nowhere else right now.”

Riverdale turned out to be a converted boarding house on the south side of the city. A three-story Victorian with of peeling paint and a chain-link fence. The van dropped Nicholas off with his plastic garbage bag of belongings—all that was left of his old life.

The house mother glanced at his paperwork. She led him upstairs to a room with four bunk beds. She pointed to the bunk by the door.

“Take that one. Don’t make trouble. Supper is at five. The school bus is out front at seven thirty.”

He found out at dinner that the home held sixteen kids, nine boys and seven girls. His room was occupied by three other boys. The oldest, a lanky sixteen-year-old named Darius, looked him up and down.

“Fresh meat,” Darius announced to the others.

The beds were metal frames with thin mattresses. Nicholas's was by the window—a mixed blessing. The window let in light but also the chill of winter through the ill-fitting windows.

That night he sat on his bunk wondering why he didn’t feel anything. He guessed it was because his mom had been a long time dying. Towards the end she hadn’t really been a mom, just a person he needed to take care of. He guessed he wasn’t a normal kid. A normal kid would be crying.

In the coming days, Nicholas learned the unwritten rules of Riverdale. Don't leave anything valuable unattended. Don't use the showers after 9 PM or when the older boys claimed them. Don't show weakness. Don't expect the staff to intervene in anything.

The staff consisted of Mrs. Harmon, who spent most of her time sipping what she called hot toddy’s and watching TV in her office. Mr. Wexler, the janitor who was so creepy everybody avoided him. And a fat woman who spoke broken English, who was the cook.

Meals were served cafeteria style on four chipped Formica tables. Breakfast was cold cereal and milk that sometimes smelled off. Lunch was sandwiches with a single slice of bologna or cheese. Dinner varied between overcooked spaghetti, mystery meat in gravy, or casseroles.

Nicholas's first week at Riverdale, someone stole his shoes while he slept. His second week, he got a black eye for sitting at the wrong table in the cafeteria. By the third week, he turned feral. He put a couple of handfuls of sand in a sock and put it to good use. He got his shoes back, the thief suffered a black eye, missing teeth and a bloody nose. Nobody bothered him after that. He sat where he wanted to sit.

School was a bus ride away, but Nicholas stopped going after a month. Despite his size, Nicholas was a big kid. The other kids still made fun of the group home kids. He was soon in trouble for fighting. After that, he quit going. No one cared. Instead, he spent his days hanging around with others like him in Flanders Park, a half acre patch of dirt with a basketball court the hoop missing its net.

At night, lying on his thin mattress listening to the snores and occasional sobs of his roommates, Nicholas would close his eyes and try to remember his mother’s face—not the gray, lifeless mask he'd found that morning, but her face before the bad times came. The smile lines around her eyes. The way she'd tuck him into bed with a kiss. He had no memory of his father, who had died when he was four. He was sad because the memories of those good days were fading faster than he could hold on to them.

Darius caught him crying in once, silent tears that Nicholas thought were safe in the darkness.

“You crying for your mama?” Darius said, not unkindly. “Don't. Ain't nobody here got a mama worth crying over.”

Darius had been in the system since he was seven. Riverdale was his fifth placement. “This place ain't even the worst,” he told Nicholas. “At least the staff here mostly leave you alone.”

There was a hierarchy at Riverdale. The boys who had been there longest and who were biggest or meanest ruled. Nobody messed with the girls. At the bottom were the newcomers, the ones who still believed someone might adopt them.

At night, after lights out, the boys would sometimes talk about their plans. Darius was going to join the marines the day he turned eighteen. Miguel was going back to his cousin's place in Arizona. Tyler was sure his mom would get clean and come get him any day now.

Nicholas had no plans. For him, the future was a blank wall.

****

Fear gripped fifteen-year-old Nicholas Carter when he spotted the flashing lights of the cop car in the rear-view mirror. He had just stolen a sweet, fire-engine red GT-500 Cobra.

For the past eight months, he’d had a nice little gig stealing cars for a guy named Half-Ear, who owned a junkyard and a garage on the edge of town. One of Half-Ear’s guys, a fat man by the name of Junior, had taught him and Darius how to drive and had showed them all the tricks of boosting cars. It had been a good gig; the money gave them considerable status on the street.

Nicholas was a quick study. He became an excellent thief.

He briefly entertained the thought of trying to outrun the cops. He knew those streets better than any cop, but in the end, he pulled over, got out and dropped to his knees and laced his hands behind his head. This wasn’t his first time being arrested.

The public defender the court assigned him was a middle-aged woman with gray hair and cynical, bored eyes. She introduced herself, shuffled through some files.

“Ordinarily, we could plead for leniency, given your age. Probably get probation extended instead of detention time. But you already went that route six months ago. So now, you’re fucked, kid. Theft of a motor vehicle is a class B felony. It’s your second offense. You broke your probation. You’re looking at ten years. I talked to the DA, and he’s willing to recommend three years in juvenile detention. With good behavior, you could be out sooner.”

Nicholas just nodded with resigned acceptance.

In the courtroom, Judge Harrison—a man with steel-gray hair and eyes like stone—looked at Nicholas like he was something he'd scraped off his shoe. A man who'd never missed a meal or wondered where he'd sleep at night, passing judgment on a kid who'd never known anything else.

“Mr. Carter,” the judge intoned, peering at Nicholas over the top of his reading glasses. “I've reviewed your record. This isn't your first offense. You've been given opportunities to correct your behavior, and yet here you stand before me again.”

Nicholas stared at a spot on the wall behind the judge's head, his face a mask of indifference.

“You are, I'm afraid to say, going to become another statistic. Another example of a young man who chooses crime over education, rebellion over cooperation.” The judge sighed theatrically, as if the weight of Nicholas's poor choices was somehow a burden on him personally. “I believe firmly in rehabilitation through incarceration. I sentence you to three years in the Illinois State Juvenile Detention Facility.”

Juvie was about what he had expected—an institutional version of life on the streets. Same unwritten rules. Same consequences for showing weakness. The difference was that here, everything was compressed, intensified by concrete walls and steel doors.

At six feet three inches tall, Nicholas' size made him stand out among the sea of orange jumpsuit-clad bodies. Made him a threat to those who considered themselves in charge.

On his third day, during yard time, a stocky kid with a crude tattoo on his neck and three other boys trailing behind him like shadows sauntered over to where Nicholas was doing pull-ups on the exercise bar. The kid's name was Butch, in for armed robbery. Two years into a five-year sentence.

“New guy,” Butch said, his voice carrying just enough for the gathering audience to hear. “This ain't your equipment. Everything in here belongs to someone, and this,” he gestured to the exercise area. “This is mine.”

Nicholas lowered himself slowly from the bar, wiping his palms on his pants. “Didn't see your name on it,” he replied, his voice level, but with an edge that made it clear he wasn't backing down. Nicholas had been dealing with guys like Butch for years—different names, same asshole.

“I'm telling you now,” Butch said, stepping closer, his chest puffed out. The yard had gone quiet, other conversations dying as everyone sensed the coming storm. “You want to use anything in my yard; you pay the tax.”

Nicholas laughed. “Tax? What, you want my pudding cup or something?”

Butch's eyes narrowed. “I think you got something else I want.” His gaze flicked meaningfully toward Nicholas's state-issued sneakers—newer and less worn than most.

It was such a stupid thing, such a small thing. A pair of cheap sneakers that actually fit. Nicholas felt something cold and familiar settle in his chest—the calm before violence that had gotten him through so many fights before.

“Not happening,” Nicholas said simply.

Butch smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth. “Wrong answer, new meat.”

He came at Nicholas with surprising speed, his two friends flanking him in a practiced maneuver meant to trap him against the exercise equipment. But Nicholas had been surrounded before. This wasn’t his first fight. He had learned long ago that the rule was—land the first punch.

He didn't even remember much of the fight afterward. Just disjointed flashes, like a strobe light illuminating moments of chaos. The guy on the right’s choked scream when Nicholas’ foot smashed his balls. Butch's face, contorted with shock as Nicholas caught his arm mid-swing and twisted. The dull sound when Butch's head hit the concrete after Nicholas's counter punch connected with his jaw. The feel of fists against his own ribs as Butch's friends got in their shots. The guards' batons striking his back as they pulled him off while Butch's other friends backed away and vanished into the crowd of onlookers.

They dragged him to the Warden's office directly from the yard, blood still seeping from his bruised and torn knuckles.

Warden Phillips—a barrel-chested man with thinning white hair and cynical cop eyes—sat behind his desk reviewing the incident report with theatrical gravity. Nicholas stood before him, hands cuffed behind his back, a guard stationed on either side of him.

“Three days,” the Warden finally said, looking up from the papers. “Three days and you've already put another inmate in the infirmary, Mr. Carter. Broke Butch Donovan's jaw in two places. Gave him a concussion that's going to keep him in the hospital ward for a week.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Nicholas met his gaze steadily. “He started it.”

The Warden's expression didn't change. “This ain’t grade school, son. 'He started it' doesn't fly here. Donovan may be recovering in the infirmary, but he's not the one looking at serious consequences.”

“Whatever,” Nicholas muttered, the adrenaline from the fight fading now, leaving him hollowed out and tired. He recognized he was in front of another bully. He wasn’t going to play this asshole’s games. “Do what you're gonna do.”

“You're already on a three-year sentence,” the Warden continued. “But that doesn't mean your time here can't get a whole lot worse.”

Nicholas's jaw tightened.

“Nothing to say?” the Warden pressed. “No explanations? No apologies? No promises to do better?”

Nicholas looked at him with dead eyes. Said, with all the cold defiance he could muster, “Fuck you.”

The room went silent. The guard to Nicholas's right tensed, his hand moved to his baton. The Warden just shook his head, a small, clearly fake disappointed smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, Mr. Hardass,” he said. “Let's see how tough you are after eighteen months in solitary. Get him out of here.”

The guards gripped Nicholas's arms and turned him toward the door.

Eighteen months. The words didn't fully register at first. Eighteen months in a box. Eighteen months alone. The longest solitary he’d heard of.

“You can't do that,” Nicholas protested, his composure cracking for the first time. “That's—that's too long.” Fear flickered before he could mask it.

The Warden's smile widened fractionally. “I can and I will. Maybe when you come out, you'll have learned some manners. Or maybe you'll have forgotten how to speak entirely. Either way, I suspect you'll be less trouble for me and the State of Illinois.”

He shuffled down the long corridor toward the solitary wing. The shackles around his ankle rattling. His mind racing in panic stricken circles. He'd heard stories about solitary, how it changed guys, broke them. How some guys came out talking to themselves or worse, not talking at all. Eighteen months was nearly half his sentence.

He was well and truly fucked.

 

Chapter 2

 

Nicholas soon discovered that no matter how bad his life had been before, things could get worse.

Much worse.

The cell was the size of a parking space. Concrete walls painted an institutional beige, scarred with scratchings from previous occupants—desperate tallies marking time, crude drawings, and obscenities etched by fingernails. Dark brown spatters stained one corner, unmistakably blood. Someone had meticulously drawn hash marks to count the days until they either gave up or left. A metal toilet-sink combination was bolted to one wall, a narrow bed with a paper-thin mattress bolted to another. A small metal desk and stool, also bolted down, completed the furnishings. A slot in the bottom of the door allowed food trays to be passed through; another at eye level allowed the guards to monitor him. The fluorescent light in the ceiling, protected behind shatterproof glass, flickered and buzzed like an insect was trapped inside.

The cell door closed with a heavy thud that reverberated not just in the room but deep in Nicholas's belly. The lock engaged with a mechanical click. Just like that, Nicholas was alone in a way he had never been before—not the aloneness of an empty apartment or a friendless childhood, but isolation absolute.

I can do this, he told himself. Eighteen months is nothing.

Then they turned out the lights.

A viewing slot opened in the door, letting in a bar of light. A guard’s mocking voice came through.

“Compliments of the Warden, Hardass. Let’s see how you like it dark.”

The blackness of the dark pressed down on him like a heavy blanket. He couldn’t breathe. The panic came and he raged. Rage was familiar, comfortable even. He raged against the crushing unfairness of his life, pounded his fists against the unyielding door until his knuckles split and bled, screamed obscenities at the guards who walked past without acknowledging his existence. He kicked at the door until his foot swelled purple with bruising. The concrete and steel of the cell absorbed his fury without comment, without resistance, until eventually, his body gave out, too exhausted to continue.

The only way he could tell time was by the little slot in the door where a bar of light would show and a tray of food would slide in. Then the light would go away and the dark would come back with its smothering weight. The panic would crash over him again.

By the second week, his rage had worn out. He was reduced to begging. Begging for the light to stay.

But no one was listening.

There was no one but him.

In the dark.

It was unmoved by his suffering.

Nicholas tried sleeping instead—fourteen, fifteen hours a day, drifting in and out of consciousness, using sleep as an escape from the crushing dark.

But a healthy teenage body can only sleep so much, and soon he found himself denied even that refuge. He would lie awake on his thin mattress, staring at the blackness, watching imagined things dance beyond his reach. His mind would be off again and racing with terrors that bounced in his head like ping-pong balls.

By the third week, the dark had a physical presence. They had started to let him out for an hour to exercise. Afterwards, it took two of them to shove him screaming back into the black.

The block was never truly silent—distant shouts, muffled sobs, and occasional laughter filtered through the walls, reminders that somewhere, life continued. But inside the cell, there was a deeper silence that pressed in on him from all sides. A thousand feather pillows muffled his spirit. Smothered him. He imagined the walls were moving, closing in on him—inch by inch, day by day. Sometimes he would press his palms flat against them, convinced they were moving ever so slowly but inexorably moving.

Closer and closer.

Nicholas tried to cope by constructing elaborate fantasies in his head about what he would do when he got out—the places he would go, the people he would see, the food he would eat. At first, these daydreams were vivid, detailed, offering temporary escapes from his reality. But as days stretched into weeks, the fantasies grew harder to maintain. The outside world began to feel less real than the cell.

At the end of the fourth week, the guards quit their games of dark and the lights came on and stayed.

Nicholas wept with gratitude. Thanking them over and over. With a voice that now only croaked.

A pair of cockroaches sometimes crept into the cell through a tiny space at the bottom of the door. In his desperation for a connection, Nicholas tried to make friends with them. He started saving crumbs from his meals, watching with rapt attention as the insects scurried over and carried them away. He named them Molly and Polly. They had full, hours-long conversations, Nicholas's voice growing hoarse from disuse when he spoke aloud, then falling to whispers as he shared secrets with the bugs.

“What do you think, Polly? Coke or Pepsi?”

He'd wait, watching the cockroach's antennae twitch.

“Coke? Yeah, I think so too. Has more bite, you know? My mom always bought the off-brand stuff, though. Store brands or some shit.”

Then he'd take Molly's side, arguing with himself about these trivial things, creating conflict just to feel something other than the crushing emptiness. The arguments grew more heated as time passed, Nicholas sometimes shouting both sides of the conversation until his throat was raw, then collapsing in tears.

Other times he would have conversations with people from his past—his third-grade teacher who had once pulled him aside and told him he was smart, really smart, if only he would apply himself. The old man who ran the corner store and sometimes slipped him free candy bars when he was little.

And he talked with his mom. Not the mom of his last memories—the vacant-eyed and hollow-cheeked junkie chasing her next fix—but the mom from before the accident, who would sing off-key while washing dishes and call him her “little man.”

He told her stories of the days of his life since her overdose, like he was a kid just home from school, telling his mommy about what he did at recess. Sometimes in these conversations, he could almost feel her fingers running through his hair, could almost smell the floral scent of her shampoo.

One day, he accidentally stepped on Molly or Polly while raging. The other one left and never came back. Or maybe he killed that one too and didn’t remember. Things were foggy for him now. He wept for his little friends, saying he was so very sorry. He hadn’t meant to hurt. The sobs, deep and gut-wrenching, left him gasping for air as he curled on the floor of his cell. He wept like he had never wept for his mother.

Without his two little friends, the silent solitude grew more oppressive. Nicholas found himself straining to hear anything—the distant flush of a toilet, footsteps in the corridor, the squeak of the food cart's wheels—any confirmation that the world still existed beyond his cell door.

His daily conversations with his mother took a darker turn as he inquired about the mechanics of the afterlife and asked her for hints about how he could join her. In rare moments of clarity, he knew these thoughts should concern him, that they were dangerous, but it didn't seem to matter anymore. He was going to die here; he was sure of it. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Then it occurred to him that maybe he was already dead. Half-remembered lessons from the church he and his mother had attended ran through his mind—heaven, hell and purgatory. Maybe he'd died and this cell was his eternal punishment, an endless limbo where he would remain forever, forgotten by God and everyone else.

He tried exercise to make himself tired enough to sleep. He did push-ups until his arms trembled and gave out beneath him. Sit-ups until his abdominal muscles seized in protest. He paced the seven steps across his cell and back, counting to a thousand and starting over, then counting to five thousand. The movement helped, but the thoughts never stopped—a constant barrage of memories, regrets, and fears that chased him around the tiny space.

The awake time was a curse. Sixteen hours of consciousness became unbearable when there was nothing to fill it but the inside of his own head. The boredom was not the passive boredom of a rainy Sunday afternoon, but something active and malevolent that clawed at his sanity.

As the days bled into the second month, there were times when Nicholas wasn't entirely sure he still existed. He would pinch himself hard enough to bruise or bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, just to feel something, to confirm he was still there. He wondered what they would say when they finally opened that door after eighteen months, only to find a ghost, a hollow-eyed shell where a boy had once been.

The hallucinations were now constant. His mother sitting on the edge of his bed, looking healthier than she had in years, telling him everything would be okay. A dog he'd had briefly when he was eight, before the landlord found out and made them get rid of it. Once, terrifyingly, a dark figure that stood in the corner of the cell for what felt like hours, watching him silently.

One day—later he tried to figure out when, but the days had long since run together in an indistinguishable blur—something unexpected broke the crushing monotony. A miracle. The meal slot in his door opened at an unusual time, and through it came two objects, pushed through and left there on the floor of his cell.

A book and a notebook with a pen inside. A note attached read: “You did me a solid. Butch was going to kill me. He's hurting too bad to bother. I owe you. I stole these from the library. I know from experience books pass the time.”

The book was titled ‘Stoicism for Teenagers’.

Nicholas tossed the book aside with a bitter laugh that echoed in the small space. What the fuck good would that do? He wasn't good at reading. School had never been kind to him—when you're poor and your clothes are either too small or too big and mostly, you're dirty and smell, kids heap scorn on you—or they did until he got big enough to beat their faces in. But you're always on the outside looking in, your nose pressed against the window of a life that isn't for people like you.

But there's only so many cracks you can count on a ceiling, only so many times you can trace the same water stain with your eyes while the madness creeps in around the edges of your mind. Eventually, he picked up the book. “Stoicism for Teenagers”—the title made him angry. He didn't feel like a teenager. The book was stupid.

It took him forever to get through the first chapter. His lips moved as he sounded out the words, his finger tracing beneath each line. The opening sentence stopped him cold:

“You can't control the things life throws at you, but you can control how you respond to it.”

Nicholas thought he must have read that line fifty times that first day, trying to wrap his mind around what the author was saying. Life was unfair. His whole fucking life had been one disaster after another happening to him—his mom dying, the grinding poverty, the fights, everything. What good did it do to control how he reacted to it? The damage was already done.

He threw the book against the wall and screamed until his voice gave out, the sound bouncing back at him from the indifferent concrete.

The notebook, though, that was a much bigger deal. It was his witness. It occurred to him that he could talk to his future self. If there was writing in the notebook, he must be real, not a ghost. That first night, he wrote a single line: “My name is Nicholas Carter. I am in hell.” He stared at the words for a long time before falling into the first deep, dreamless sleep he'd had in weeks.

The next day he picked the book up again, smoothing its crumpled pages. This time, something in the words caught hold of his mind.

Control. He loved the idea of control. He needed control.

So maybe he couldn't control the cards he was dealt. But thinking back on his reactions to things that had happened, he'd been responding to those cards the same way every time—with his fists, with anger, with self-destruction. Always reacting with stupid shit. Like stealing cars. Like saying “fuck you” to the warden on his first day, earning him this place in hell.

It was your own fault. You deserve this place for being such a stupid fucker.

The sayings in the book sounded like bullshit, but Nicholas tried them one at a time, treating it like a game. He started with little things. When his food came cold—it always was—instead of raging about it like he would have before, he thanked the guard and ate it, focusing on the taste, bland as it was. When one of the asshole guards rapped on the door, calling him names and waking him in the middle of the night from his precious sleep, he practiced keeping his face blank and his mouth shut, instead of screaming curses.

The game consumed him—seeing how much he could take without reacting the same old way. If he reacted—and he did often—he'd take the next morning to examine how the anger felt in his body. The tightness in his chest, the heat in his face, the way his hands would shake afterward. He'd roll it around in his mind, remind himself that when he lost control, he wasn't hurting the guard or the system—just himself.

In his notebook, he began keeping track of these small victories and defeats. “Today I didn't ‘fuck you’ Jenkins when he called me a waste of space.” Or, “Lost my shit when lunch was just a slice of bread and some mystery meat. Threw the tray. Need to do better tomorrow.” The pages filled with his large, uneven handwriting, a record of his struggle to find something—everything—he could control in this place that had stripped everything else away.

Control

Some days were better than others. On the bad days, the walls still closed in, and he would find himself back in the black mood, convinced he would never leave this cell, that the world outside had forgotten he existed. On those days, the notebook became his lifeline. He would read back through his entries, remind himself of the small victories, the incremental progress.

“I am here,” he would write, pressing the pen so hard into the paper that the words embossed the next several pages. “I am Nicholas. I am in control of me.”

And somehow, impossibly, he was.

 

Chapter 3

 

Gradually, Nicholas came to realize that he could be in the driver's seat where the rest of his life was concerned. Sure, he had no control of most things, at least until he got out of juvie. But, while he was in here, he could make a plan and begin to shape his future.

He had time. Lots of time to think about things and create a plan. The first thing had to do was quit being so fucking dumb and learn stuff. He had to figure out how you learned stuff so he could learn good. The book held the key. The writing held the control.

He read every day. Over and over. Parsing out meaning. Wrote in the notebook every day. The writing was his salvation—his lifeline. He now worried about what would happen to him if he ran out of space to write. Terrified that his precarious control would disappear. He didn’t think he would survive if he slipped back into madness.

They began sending him to the doctor once a month for a wellness check. The second visit provided the next bit of salvation for him.

The prison doctor, Dr. Jennings, was an older guy, with salt-and-pepper hair and reading glasses he kept on a chain. The guard took him to the clinic for a checkup after his weekly shower and issue of fresh clothing.

Doctor Jennings wasn’t kind exactly, but he wasn’t an asshole either. He looked him in the eye when he talked to him. Just like he was a regular person.

While Nicholas sat on the metal table with a blood pressure cuff on his arm, he impulsively asked, “Sir, how do people learn shit? Like, really learn it?”

The doctor looked at him with surprise, thought for a bit, and said,

“That's a big question.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Everyone's different, but most people learn through repetition, application, and teaching others. When you learn things, no one can take them away from you. Knowledge is the only true possession a man can have.”

He must have looked confused because the Doctor stopped pumping the blood pressure cuff and explained:

“Repetition means doing it over and over and maybe writing things down. Application means using what you learned in real life. And teaching means explaining it to someone else—if you can do that well. That's when you know you really understand something.”

Hmmm

On the way out, he managed to steal a couple of spiral bound notebooks and a Bic pen out of the clinic's supply closet. He shoved them into his pants and shuffled out to the waiting guard, his heart pounding. Getting caught would mean more time in solitary, maybe even more time in the black, but he needed those notebooks more than he needed safety.

After he tucked them away under his mattress, he wrote down that he was going to learn stuff and stop being so fucking dumb.

Nicholas’s next big break came six months later, when the guards let him visit the library and check out books. After his weekly shower and clean clothes issue, they took him to the library, where he was told he could get two books. He wept unashamed tears as he selected a Webster’s dictionary and a book called “Stoicism and the Art of Happiness”

Back in his cell, Nicholas wrote himself a daily schedule. Wake up, exercise for an hour—push-ups, sit-ups, five-minute planks, squats, lunges, anything he could do in the small space.

Then breakfast would come—usually watery scrambled eggs, cereal, toast, and weak coffee that tasted like dishwater. He carefully savored every bite.

After breakfast, He read till lunch. At first it was very slow going. He didn’t know a lot of the words. Every time he hit a word he didn't know, he'd look it up, use it in a sentence, then write it down in his word-notebook. After a while, Nicholas had a notebook full of words he'd learned.

He'd read a paragraph or two, then close the book and try to explain it as if Polly was still there. If he couldn't, he'd read it again. And again. And again, until the words made sense.

Then lunch. Bland soup and a sandwich.

Then exercise again

Then the books again.

When he really felt like he knew the day’s lesson. He’d write it down, carefully. Tiny letters. He didn’t have paper to waste.

He wrote about Marcus Aurelius and how even an emperor had to struggle with his own mind. He wrote about the Stoic philosophers and their ideas about controlling what you could control and accepting what you couldn't. He wrote about how words had power, how understanding the meaning of things could change how you saw the world.

He wrote about himself, reminding himself his life was here for a purpose—his purpose—not somebody else’s. Then sometimes he wrote a memory, sometimes a new thought about what he was reading. Sometimes a list of what he was going to do in the future.

Because now he had a future. Not guaranteed, Nicholas reminded himself, the madness of the dark still lurked in the corner of his mind, but his to have if he kept:

Control.

A couple more months passed, and he stole more notebooks. He started trying to write essays about the stuff he was learning, to see if he could explain it to someone else—to convince them. There was no one to read them, but he pretended he was teaching another dumb kid like himself.

A year in and he had a routine. He had habits. He had discipline. He had time to examine his life so far and patterns and consequences emerged from his old way of thinking and resultant behavior. He was slowly learning to know himself.

Control.

Chapter 4

Nicholas had just turned seventeen when he emerged from solitary. He was hollowed out, utterly focused, and far colder. People sensed the difference, even if they couldn’t put a finger on it. He made them uncomfortable. He didn't want trouble, but trouble still wanted him.

Butch wanted his revenge. The others warned Nicholas that he'd been waiting for him to get out of the hole. His jaw healed badly. He blamed Nicholas for the fact that the left side of his face didn't match the right anymore. Nicholas knew the confrontation was coming.

He didn't try to avoid it.

They cornered him in the laundry room—Butch and three of his crew. Nicholas didn't fight back this time. Just covered up, protected his organs and head. They worked him over good. Kicks to the ribs, punches to the kidneys, wherever they could land them. He was grateful they didn’t shank him.

All the while, Butch was screaming in his face, wanting to know why he wasn't fighting back, calling him a coward, a punk. But Nicholas just took it. Not because he was scared, but because fighting back would have put him back in the dark. And, it was only pain. He was used to pain. Pain meant he was alive.

He ended up with a broken rib, a dislocated shoulder, and a face that looked like raw hamburger. But for once, he was lucky. The guards believed him when he said he hadn't been fighting. There were cameras in the laundry room. They saw the whole thing. Butch and his crew got sent to solitary.

In a way, Nicholas got his revenge without throwing a punch. They shoved Butch into his old, solitary cell. Two months in, he managed to kill himself. Nicholas heard about it during breakfast one morning. His first thought was admiration. Butch had figured out a way to do it. Nicholas had concentrated for weeks trying to find a way. Butch was smarter than he’d thought.

Nicholas didn't feel good or bad about it. He didn’t feel much of anything. He knew he’d been lucky. If that unknown guy hadn’t taken a risk and given him that book and notebook; if Marcus Aurelius hadn’t been around to write his books. He would have been lost.

He was in the hospital ward for a week after the beating. Cracked ribs take time to heal. The nurse, Ms. Alvarez, a lady who didn't take shit from anyone. She'd look at his chart, cluck her tongue, and say things like, “You are a smart boy. Why you let them do this? Next time, you run.”

She let him keep books by his bed, even though he was supposed to be resting. Said reading was good for healing. “Keeps your mind moving when your body cannot.”

When Nicholas got out of the medical ward, unaccountably he got a job in the library. The old warden was gone. He guessed that the new regime was trying to keep him quiet about the unusual solitary time. He didn’t hold any grudges, just counted his blessings. He spoke to no one unless he had to. The part-time librarian, Mr. Benson, was a skinny semi-retired teacher with thick glasses. He picked up on Nicholas’ hunger for education. He started casually setting aside books he thought he might like.

“This one made me think,” he'd say, sliding a book across the desk. Sometimes it was philosophy, sometimes history, sometimes science fiction. He introduced Nicholas to Asimov, to Bradbury, to Octavia Butler. Said imagination was as important as facts.

If there was an opportunity to learn from someone from the outside, Nicholas was first in line. They had volunteer programs where people would come in and teach classes. Art, writing, math tutoring, whatever. He signed up for all of them. Most of the other guys thought he was brown-nosing, trying to look good for early release or something. He didn’t give a shit what they thought, as long as they left him alone. They didn't get that he was starving for knowledge. Books had saved his life and he wanted more.

He even went to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Even though he hated the taste of booze and had never touched a drug in his life, his mom's addiction had cured him of any desire to try drugs. He went to the meetings, anyway. Partly because it was something to do, but mostly because he had read the big book and was curious about the twelve steps. People coming up from their bottom. Figured there was something there he could use.

Dave, the guy who ran the meeting, had been sober for twenty-two years. He had a deep, calm voice and wise eyes that looked like they'd seen everything. After Nicholas's third meeting, he pulled him aside.

“You're not an alcoholic,” he said. It wasn't a question.

“No, sir,” Nicholas said quietly.

“So why do you come?”

He thought about it for a second. “I want to understand addiction. My mom was an addict. Heroin. It killed her eventually.”

Dave nodded like that made perfect sense. “You’re an Al-Anon then. The steps aren't just for drunks, you know. They're for anyone who needs to make peace with their past and find a way forward.”

After that, he'd sometimes use Nicholas as an example when he was explaining concepts to the group. “Take Nicholas here. He's working on his inventory, same as you guys, just with different demons.”

The fourth step—making a searching and fearless moral inventory—that one hit him hard. That was some Stoicism shit. He spent weeks writing his out. All the kids he'd bullied. All the cars he'd stolen. He’d disrespected the teachers. His mom, who he'd both loved and hated. Half-Ear, who'd used him, and who he resented, but given him a way to survive. He wrote it all down. The good and the bad.

When it came time for the eighth and ninth steps—making a list of people he'd harmed and a list of people he resented. He needed to make amends to free himself. Nicholas realized most of the people on his list were impossible to find. Random kids he'd pushed around in school hallways. People whose cars he'd stolen. The stream of social workers he’d met. He wrote letters, even though he knew he'd never send them. Dave said make living amends—it was important to remind yourself not to be an asshole.

“Part of making amends means becoming the kind of person who would never do those things again. That's your living amends.”

The months passed. He kept to his routine. Studying. Reading. Writing every day about what he read. By now he had twelve notebooks filled with poetry, observations, his new words book continued to fill up. The others had notes about whatever he’d been reading that day. He worked out in the yard, mainly calisthenics. He gave everybody respect and got respect back, stayed clear of trouble, clear of the gangs and cliques that formed and reformed like storm clouds.

And then, suddenly, his sentence was over. They processed him out at 11:30 on a Tuesday. The clothes he'd been wearing when he came in were too small, so he was wearing a pair of donated Levis and a wool shirt and a thin jacket. The guard handed him an envelope containing $200 in gate money and a bus pass to downtown.

Just like that, he was outside. No walls. No fences. No guards. Just himself and a plastic Safeway sack with his notebooks.

He waited at the bus stop outside the detention center, feeling the heat of the June sun on his face, listening to birds in the trees. Freedom didn’t seem real. Colors were too bright, too loud, too open.

He had a plan. Nicholas always had a plan these days. First step: find a place to stay—there was a halfway house that took in guys just out of juvie, got them on their feet. Second step: get a job, something quiet, something with books maybe. Third was study for the GED, then community college.

The bus came. He got on, found a seat near the back. As they pulled away from the detention center, Nicholas didn't look back.

He was eighteen years old. An ex-con. He had no family, no home, and no friends.

But he had himself. The self he'd built in that cell, book by book, thought by thought. The core self he'd discovered and nurtured after everything else had been stripped away.

Nicholas figured that was more than enough.

 

Chapter 5

 

Every morning of his new life, Nicholas repeated his mantra when he woke up:

I will be unyielding, I will embrace an ascetic path. Every mistake is a lesson, every obstacle will be faced and overcome. I don’t give a fuck about my ego, my shame, or my pain; I will learn and master my life.

A bit theatrical—perhaps. He didn’t give a shit. It said what he wanted it to say.

The halfway house was what he’d been told to expect—a rundown four-bedroom house with peeling paint, narrow hallways, and the lingering smell of disinfectant covering up decades of cigarette smoke. Eight guys, two to a room, metal-frame beds, foot lockers to his few things. But it had a roof, hot water showers, and was within walking distance of the community college and a city library. That's all Nicholas needed.

His first night there, he met his roommates. Two guys fresh out of juvie like him. Three older ones who'd been in adult prison. One guy, Roger, took one look at Nicholas and decided they were going to have a problem.

“You think you're better than us, don't you?” he said, watching Nicholas arrange his notebooks on the small shelf next to his bunk. “With your writing and shit.”

Nicholas didn't look up. “No. I just like books.”

Roger knocked the books to the floor. Power move. Testing to see if he'd react, if he was a threat or a victim.

The old Nicholas would have put him through the wall. The new Nicholas just bent down and picked up the notebooks, one by one, carefully checking each for damage before putting it back on the shelf. Roger stood there, waiting for a reaction.

“You deaf or something?” he pushed.

“No,” Nicholas said, placing the last notebook on the shelf. “Just not interested in playing this game.”

Roger looked confused, then disgusted. Walked away muttering something about “stuck-up little punk.” Nicholas heard the others snickering. But he meant what he said. He wasn't going to waste energy on stupid shit. He'd learned from Marcus Aurelius: “Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears. The best answer to anger is silence.”

The next morning, Nicholas was up at 5 AM. Push-ups, sit-ups, and squats beside his bunk. Quiet so he wouldn't wake the others. Then a hot shower and out the door by 6:30. The college admissions office wouldn't open until 9, but he wanted to walk the campus first, get a feel for it.

It was smaller than he'd imagined. Just a cluster of buildings around a central quad with some trees and benches. Nothing fancy. But to him it meant freedom.

When the admissions office opened, he was the first one waiting. The woman at the front desk looked surprised to see him—a tall, serious kid clutching a folder full of carefully prepared documents.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I want to apply for fall semester,” Nicholas said, his voice steady despite the nerves churning in his stomach. “I need to get a GED first, I know, but I’d like to know about costs and stuff.”

“Actually, I have the information about the GED right here. We have a program that starts next week helping you get ready for the test. Would you like to sign up?”

“How much is it?” he said cautiously. “I haven’t got a job yet, so I might have to wait.”

She looked at him curiously, like she couldn’t imagine not having seventy-five bucks. “No problem, you have till Friday to sign up. The cost is $75.” Nicholas thanked her politely. And walked away encouraged. He got lucky. This will work.

Next stop: find a job. Nicholas walked to the library first. It seemed the most natural fit, but they weren't hiring. Same with the bookstore near campus. He tried a coffee shop, a grocery store, and a 7/11. Nobody wanted to hire a kid with no experience and no references.

By late afternoon, he was hungry and tired, but still determined. He stopped at a small diner to spend some of his precious gate money on a cheap meal. While he was eating, he noticed a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of the auto shop across the street.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Cars had gotten him into trouble in the first place. But beggars can't be choosers, and he did know about cars, thanks to Half-Ear. Nicholas finished his meal, crossed the street, and walked into Ray's Auto Repair.

The owner, Ray himself, was a barrel-chested guy in his sixties with massive forearms covered in tattoos. He looked Nicholas up and down.

“You know anything about cars, kid?”

“Yes, sir,” Nicholas said. “I can change oil, rotate tires, replace filters. I'm a quick learner for the rest.”

Ray narrowed his eyes. “Where'd you learn that?”

Nicholas had prepared for this. Had rehearsed his answer in his head during those last weeks in juvie. No lying—that wasn't the person he was trying to be—but no unnecessary details, either.

“I worked with cars before. Informal training.”

Ray grunted. “We'll see. Be here tomorrow at 7. We'll give it a week. See if you're worth keeping around.”

That night, Nicholas went back to the library to look for some sort of general auto repair manual. He read until closing time, memorizing oil changes and tire rotation. Simple stuff, he hoped this guy Ray would teach him more. He was determined to prove himself.

He got the job. Lucky again.

For the next month, he lived by a strict routine. Up at 5 for exercise. At the shop by 7. Work until 3, get covered in grease and oil, learn everything Ray was willing to teach him. Quick shower back at the halfway house, then to the library until it closed at 10. Study for the things he needed to know to pass the GED. The workshop proved invaluable. He now had some idea what he didn’t know—a lot. Back to the house just before curfew. Repeat.

Nicholas barely spoke to his roommates. Didn't socialize, didn't party on weekends, didn't waste money on movies. Every dollar he earned went into the bank, after being noted in a small notebook where he tracked his savings. Every hour of his day was accounted for, purposeful. Some of the guys at the house called him “weird.” He didn't care.

The old Nicholas would have cared. Might have felt the sting of exclusion, the old anger at being mocked. But that Nicholas was long gone. In his place, there was a man who understood that their opinions of him existed only in their minds. He quoted Lao Tzu to himself, “Care about what other people think of you and you will always be their prisoner.”

These days, random bits of knowledge from his voracious reading often popped up in his mind. He was long past wondering how a kid from the projects was quoting an ancient philosopher who lived two thousand five hundred years ago.

Studying for the GED was going to be brutal. Nicholas knew that the future he planned was dependent on his passing, and not just passing—he needed scores high enough to be considered college-ready. The stakes couldn't have been higher. It was his best shot at a future different from the past he had left behind. But there was so much he didn’t know.

When Nicholas first approached the desk at the Riverside Public Library, he was wearing the stiff new clothes they'd given him upon release. The librarian, a gray-haired woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a cardigan despite the summer heat, looked up with the practiced neutral expression of someone who had seen it all.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice neither warm nor cold.

“I need books to study for the GED,” Nicholas said, his voice low but clear. “All subjects.”

She assessed him, noting his age, the institutional haircut still growing out. “The test preparation section is on the second floor, northwest corner,” she said, pointing toward the stairs.

Nicholas nodded his thank you. He found the section easily enough—a few shelves of workbooks, study guides, and practice tests. He pulled one of each type and carried them to a table by the window. For the next four hours, he paged through them methodically, making mental notes of what he remembered from school and what was completely foreign to him.

By closing time, he had a plan. Six months to prepare. Four subjects. He'd tackle Mathematics first, then Science, Social Studies, and finally Language Arts.

The next day, he was back at three-fifteen, after his shift at the garage ended. Same table, same laser focus. He spread out his mathematics workbooks and a notebook he'd purchased out of his savings. Starting with basic arithmetic, he worked his way through problem after problem, not allowing himself to move on until he fully understood each concept.

Days turned into weeks, and Nicholas became a fixture at that table by the window. Always arriving at three fifteen, always staying until the nine o'clock closing announcement. The security guard got used to seeing him, nodding as he left each night.

Three weeks into his study regime, the same gray-haired librarian approached his table. He had papers spread out everywhere, algebraic equations filling his notebook, a frustrated crease between his eyebrows.

“You're here every day,” she observed, not a question but not quite an accusation either.

Nicholas looked up, meeting her eyes directly. “Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm Mrs. Edwards, the reference librarian,” she said. “You're studying for the GED.”

Again, it wasn't a question. Nicholas just nodded.

“I see, you're having trouble with the quadratic formulas,” she noted, glancing at his work.

“I can't seem to get the approach right.”

Mrs. Edwards stood there for a moment, as if making a decision. Then she pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. “The trick,” she said, taking his pencil and turning his notebook toward her, “is to understand all three methods to solving them. The first and probably the most useful in the test is factoring. Here’s what I mean…” For the next twenty minutes, she broke down the three quadratic formula solutions in a way none of his workbooks had, relating it to examples that made sense to Nicholas. When she finished, she pushed the notebook back to him.

“Try these problems again,” she said. “I'll check on you before I leave for the day.”

True to her words, she returned an hour later. Nicholas had completed all the problems correctly. He didn't smile, he rarely did anymore, but his eyes showed his gratitude.

“Thank you, ma’am” he said simply.

She nodded. “The library has some additional resources that aren't on the shelves. Study guides, video courses on DVD, specialized workbooks. If you're serious about this, I can help you access them.”

“I am serious,” Nicholas assured her.

Something about his tone must have convinced her. “Come find me tomorrow,” she said. “We'll set up a proper study plan.”

And so began Nicholas's real GED preparation. Each day followed the same disciplined schedule. He woke at five in the halfway house, did his routine and his assigned chores by seven, worked his garage shift till 3, then walked the mile and a half to the library, arriving precisely at 3:15. Mrs. Edwards would have materials waiting for him—specialized workbooks, DVD lectures he could watch on the library's computers, even old textbooks pulled from the donation pile before they were sold.

Mathematics occupied the first six weeks of his study. He started with basic arithmetic, making sure his foundation was solid, then progressed through algebra and geometry. He worked through every problem in the workbooks, then found more online using the library's computers. When he got stuck, he would write down his specific questions for Mrs. Edwards, who would go over them with him during her breaks or at the end of her shift.

“You have a logical mind,” she told him one evening, after he had mastered a particularly challenging set of probability problems. “You just needed structure.”

Nicholas nodded. Structure was exactly what he craved.

Weekends were his most productive time. The library opened at ten on Saturdays and one on Sundays, and Nicholas was always waiting at the door. He would claim his usual table and settle in for the day, breaking only for short walks around the building to clear his head or for a quick lunch that he packed every day. By closing time at five, his notebooks would be filled with new problems, new facts, new knowledge.

When he felt confident in his mathematical abilities, Nicholas moved on to science. This subject proved more challenging in some ways. The concepts weren't just formulas to memorize but complex systems to understand. Biology, chemistry, physics—each had its own vocabulary, its own way of explaining the world.

“You can't just memorize this,” Mrs. Edwards cautioned him when she found him trying to commit the periodic table to memory. “You need to understand the principles, the relationships.”

She introduced him to Mr. Parkinson, a retired science teacher who volunteered at the library on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mr. Parkinson spoke softly but with evident passion about scientific concepts, drawing diagrams on scrap paper to illustrate cellular respiration or the laws of thermodynamics.

“Science is not just facts,” he told Nicholas, “it’s a way of thinking, of approaching problems.”

Nicholas took this to heart, adapting his study methods. Instead of simply reading textbooks, he began to create his own summary sheets, connecting concepts in ways that made sense to him. He drew diagrams, wrote out processes step by step, and created his own practice questions.

Mrs. Edwards observed this shift with approval. “Now you're learning, not just studying,” she said.

Social Studies came next—history, geography, economics, civics. This subject appealed to something in Nicholas that he hadn't known existed: a curiosity about how societies functioned, how governments formed and fell, how economic systems shaped human behavior. He found himself reading beyond what was required for the GED, checking out biographies of historical figures and analyzes of political movements.

“Be careful,” Mrs. Edwards warned him with the hint of a smile, “or you might actually start enjoying this.”

Nicholas didn't smile back, but his usual intense focus softened slightly. “It helps me make sense of things,” he admitted. “Why people do what they do?”

The final subject was Language Arts. Despite his initial plan to spend the least time in this area, Nicholas found it required more attention than he'd anticipated. His reading comprehension was strong—all reading and writing helped with that—but grammar rules eluded him, and essay writing was a struggle.

“You think clearly,” Mrs. Edwards told him after reading one of his practice essays, “but you write too directly. The GED evaluators will be looking for development of ideas, transitions between concepts, evidence of critical thinking.”

For the first time, Nicholas felt genuine frustration with his studies. “I don't see the point of saying in twenty words what I can say in ten,” he muttered.

Mrs. Edwards removed her glasses, cleaning them thoughtfully with the edge of her cardigan. “Language isn't just about efficiency, Nicholas. It's about connection, about bringing someone else along with your thinking. When you write an essay, you're not just listing facts. You're building a bridge between your mind and another person's.”

That perspective shift was massive. Nicholas began to approach writing not as an arbitrary set of rules but as a form of enhanced communication, a way to guide someone else through his reasoning. His essays improved dramatically.

By the time five months had passed, Nicholas had filled seven more notebooks with notes, completed twelve workbooks, watched twenty-three instructional DVDs, and taken fourteen practice tests. His scores had steadily improved, from barely passing to well above the college-ready thresholds.

“You're ready,” Mrs. Edwards told him one Friday evening in early spring, reviewing his latest practice test results. “You could take the test tomorrow and pass with flying colors.”

Nicholas shook his head. “One more month,” he said. “I want to be certain.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I respect thoroughness. Be careful lest the perfect become the enemy of good.”

That final month, Nicholas focused on integrating everything he'd learned, taking full practice tests that combined all four subjects, timing himself rigorously. He developed a routine for test day—which problems to tackle first, how long to spend on each section, when to review and when to move on.

The weekend before his scheduled GED test, he arrived at the library with something tucked under his arm, wrapped in plain brown paper. He placed it on Mrs. Edwards' desk without ceremony.

“What's this?” she asked, looking up from her computer.

“For you,” Nicholas said simply. “A thank you for helping me.”

She unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a framed quotation, handwritten in Nicholas's neat, precise script: “The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read.” — Mark Twain

Mrs. Edwards looked at it for a long moment, then up at Nicholas. “Thank you,” she said, her voice slightly rougher than usual. “This will have a place of honor in my home.”

Nicholas nodded, uncomfortable with the emotion of the moment. “I'll let you know how the test goes,” he said, and turned to head to his usual table for one final weekend of preparation.

“Nicholas,” Mrs. Edwards called after him. He paused, looking back. “Whatever the result,” she said, “what you've done these past six months—the discipline, the focus, the sheer determination—that's the real achievement. The certificate is just paper.”

Nicholas considered this, then gave a small nod. “The certificate is the key,” he corrected her quietly. “To doors that are locked to a guy like me.”

She couldn't argue with that. They both knew too well how the world worked..

When test day finally arrived, Nicholas walked into the testing center with the same calm focus he brought to his library table each day. Six hours later, he walked out, neither triumphant nor defeated—simply ready for whatever came next.

Two weeks later, his results arrived at the halfway house: Distinguished Achievement in all four subjects, scores well above the college-ready benchmarks. He took the letter to the library that same afternoon, placing it wordlessly on Mrs. Edwards' desk.

She read it, a smile spreading across her usually serious face. “Well done,” she said. “Very well done indeed.”

Nicholas allowed himself the smallest of smiles in return. “I couldn't have done it without your help.”

“Oh, you absolutely could have,” she contradicted him, handing back the letter. “It would have taken longer, been harder, but you would have gotten there. That's who you are.” She gestured to the chair beside her desk. “So, what's next? Community college, I presume?”

Nicholas sat down, the GED results still in his hand, his ticket to whatever came next. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, “could you help with the financial aid part of the applications?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Edwards replied, already reaching for a drawer where she kept college catalogs. “We'll start right away.”

 

Chapter 6

 

Nicholas still hadn't come up with a concrete plan for his future, but he had some beginning steps listed in his notebook. One of them was practical — he needed to get his juvenile record sealed. It was worth a shot now that he'd turned nineteen. He gathered his grade report, showing his GED results and a letter from Ray praising his work ethic and reliability. With these documents carefully placed in a folder, Nicholas made an appointment with a lawyer.

The law office of Patricia Winters was in a converted Victorian house on the edge of downtown. Nothing fancy, not one of those gleaming high-rise firms with marble lobbies and receptionists who looked at you like you were dirt. Just a simple sign in the yard and a buzzer at the front door.

Nicholas had found Ms. Winters through a legal aid pamphlet at the community college. She specialized in juvenile cases and offered initial consultations for free. Perfect for someone like him, living on auto mechanic wages while saving for college.

He wore the only decent clothes he owned—khaki pants and a button-up shirt he'd bought at Goodwill for interviews. His hair was freshly cut, not too short, not too long. Professional. Invisible. That's what Nicholas was aiming for these days: the ability to move through the world without drawing attention, without setting off anyone's alarms.

He arrived ten minutes early and waited on the porch until exactly 3:00 PM, then rang the buzzer. A voice through the intercom asked his name.

“Nicholas Carter. I have an appointment with Ms. Winters.”

The door buzzed open. Inside, the house had been converted to offices, but retained some of its original character—dark wood trim, high ceilings, creaky floors. The receptionist, an older woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses on a chain, looked up and smiled.

“You can have a seat. Mr. Carter. Ms. Winters will be with you shortly.”

Nicholas nodded, sat in one of the chairs against the wall, and placed his folder neatly on his lap. No fidgeting, no looking at his phone (he didn't have one anyway), just sitting straight and calm. The Stoics suggested that waiting time wasn't wasted time—it was an opportunity to collect your thoughts, to practice patience. He made it a habit of finding odd ways to challenge himself. He figured it was a workout for his will.

After about five minutes, a door opened and a woman in her forties appeared. She wore a blue blazer over jeans and a white blouse and had her dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

“Nicholas? I'm Patricia Winters. Come on in.”

Her office was organized chaos—stacks of files and law books on every surface, sticky notes clinging to her computer monitor, diplomas and certifications covering one wall. She gestured to a chair in front of her desk and sat down, quickly clearing a space for a legal pad.

“So,” she said, looking directly at him, “you're interested in getting your juvenile record sealed.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Nicholas replied, opening his folder. “I brought some documents that might help my case.”

She held up a hand. “Before we get to those, why don't you tell me a bit about your situation? What's on your record, and why do you want it sealed now?”

Nicholas had prepared for this question, had rehearsed the answer in his mind to be concise, factual, and neither apologetic nor defensive.

“When I was fifteen, I was convicted of grand theft auto. I served three years in juvenile detention and was released at eighteen. During my incarceration, developed an interest in education. Since my release, I've maintained steady employment at Ray's Auto Repair and completed and passed the GED. My scores are in the folder. This fall I will be attending Highline Junior College. I plan to study philosophy and psychology.”

She wrote some notes, her face neutral. “And why do you want your record sealed?”

“I want to transfer to a four-year university, eventually. I want to apply for better apartments, better jobs. I want the chance to be judged on who I am now, not who I was at fifteen.”

She nodded. “That's reasonable. Legally, you should have been eligible to have your record sealed when you turned eighteen, especially since your offense was non-violent in nature. You haven't had any subsequent arrests or charges, correct?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Good.” She held out her hand. “Let me see what you've brought.”

Nicholas passed her the folder. She reviewed his transcripts, the letter from Ray, and a few other documents he'd included—his lease on his apartment showing on-time rent payments and the letter showing his GED test scores.

As she read, he sat quietly, not trying to fill the silence. Nicholas had learned that most people find silence uncomfortable and will rush to fill it, often saying more than they intended. He no longer had that problem.

After a few minutes, she looked up. “These are impressive, Nicholas. You've clearly worked hard to turn your life around.”

He gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

She leaned back in her chair. “Here's how the process works. We'll file a petition with the juvenile court, including these documents as exhibits showing your rehabilitation. There will be a hearing, which you should attend. The prosecutor's office will be notified, but they rarely object in cases like yours where there's clear evidence of rehabilitation and no subsequent offenses.”

“How long does the process take?” Nicholas asked.

“About three to four months, usually. But let me explain what 'sealed' actually means.” She leaned forward, making sure he understood. “When your record is sealed, it means it's closed from public view. Most employers, landlords, and schools won't be able to see it. But it does still exist, and certain government agencies and law enforcement can access it under specific circumstances.”

Nicholas nodded. He'd researched this already, but he appreciated her thoroughness.

“What are your professional goals, Nicholas?” she asked, changing direction slightly.

The question caught him off guard. He hadn't expected it. “I'm still figuring that out,” he admitted. “I'm interested in psychology and philosophy. Maybe something in counseling or education.”

She made another note. “I ask because some professions have stricter background check requirements. If you're considering working with vulnerable populations—children, the elderly, patients—you should know that your sealed record might still be relevant.”

“I understand,” Nicholas said. He’d known that.

She put down her pen. “My honest assessment is that you have a very good chance of getting your record sealed. Your case is exactly what the juvenile justice system hopes for—a young person who makes a mistake, serves their time, and genuinely reforms.”

For the first time in their conversation, Nicholas felt something like hope stir in his chest. It was an unfamiliar feeling, one he'd trained himself to ignore.

“What's your fee?” he asked, bringing the conversation back to practical matters.

“Normally, I charge $1,500 for record sealing cases,” she said, “but given your circumstances and the strength of your case, I can do it for $800. We can work out a payment plan if needed.”

It was still a lot of money for him, but less than he'd feared. Nicholas had been saving aggressively, living on bare essentials. He had about $1,200 in his account.

“I can pay $400 now and $400 when the process is complete,” he offered.

She seemed impressed by his readiness. “That works for me. I'll need you to fill out some paperwork today, and I'll have additional forms for you to sign later this week.”

For the next thirty minutes, Nicholas filled out forms detailing his offense, his incarceration, and his life since release. Ms. Winters occasionally asked clarifying questions, but mostly let him work in silence.

When he finished, she reviewed everything and nodded. “This looks good, Nicholas. I'll file the petition next week and keep you updated on the hearing date.”

Nicholas stood up to leave, extending his hand. “Thank you for taking my case.”

She shook his hand firmly. “You've done the hard part already. I'm just helping with the paperwork.”

As he turned to go, she added, “Nicholas, I see a lot of kids who go through the system. Most of them cycle back in. What you've accomplished is rare and valuable. Don't forget that.”

He nodded, not knowing how to respond. Nicholas was still learning how to accept compliments.

Outside on the sidewalk, he took a deep breath. The meeting had gone better than expected. Four months wasn't long to wait for a clean slate—or at least a cleaner one.

As Nicholas walked back to his half-way house, he thought about Ms. Winters' question about his professional goals. Long-term stuff was difficult. He wanted a better life. Beyond that, he didn’t know yet. He'd been so focused on the day-to-day discipline of rebuilding his life that he hadn't looked too far ahead.

His immediate priority had been and continued to be simple: avoid being that guy ends up dead or back in prison.

Now he needed to get smarter so he could figure out the rest.

 

Chapter 7

Nicholas was nineteen when he started at Riverside Community College, just a bit older than his classmates. The campus itself wasn't particularly impressive, a collection of low-slung brick buildings arranged around a modest quad, nothing like the ivy-covered universities he'd seen in books. But to Nicholas, it represented something monumental: a doorway to a different kind of life.

Registration day had been an exercise in restraint. The course catalog was like a Christmas wish list to him. He was greedy for everything. The academic adviser, a middle-aged woman with reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain, had raised her eyebrows when Nicholas requested permission to take eighteen credits his first semester.

“That's a heavy course load for a new student,” she cautioned, peering at him over the rims of her glasses. “Most freshmen start with twelve or fifteen at most. Gives you time to adjust to college-level work.”

“I've been preparing for this,” Nicholas replied simply.

Something in his steady gaze must have convinced her. After reviewing his exceptional GED scores, she shrugged and approved his schedule: Introduction to Philosophy, General Psychology, English Composition I, College Algebra, Introduction to Sociology, and a biology course with a lab component.

On the first day of classes, Nicholas arrived thirty minutes early, a new notebook for each course tucked neatly in his backpack alongside precisely sharpened pencils and several Bic pens. He'd mapped out the campus the week before, walking the routes between his classrooms to calculate exactly how long it would take to move from one to the next. Nothing would be left to chance.

It was the first time he’d been back to a school since he was thirteen.

He chose a seat in the center front row of his first class, Philosophy 101, and waited as the room gradually filled with other students. They trickled in by twos and threes, laughing and talking about their summer breaks, comparing schedules, complaining about having to take early morning classes. Nicholas observed them with anthropological detachment.

His eighteen-year-old classmates seemed impossibly young to him. Careless. Like nothing bad would ever touch them. They slouched in their seats, scrolled through their phones, sipped from oversized coffee cups emblazoned with the campus café logo. Some looked half-asleep. Others were clearly still riding the social high of reuniting with friends after summer break.

When Professor Bennett entered—a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard and elbow patches on his tweed jacket, a walking stereotype of an academic. Most of the students didn't even notice. He had to clear his throat twice before the chatter began to subside.

“Welcome to Philosophy 101,” he announced, writing his name on the whiteboard. “This semester, we'll be exploring the fundamental questions that have occupied human thought for millennia. What is knowledge? What is justice? What constitutes a good life?”

Nicholas had already opened his notebook to a fresh page, pen poised. When Professor Bennett began distributing the syllabus, he noticed Nicholas' readiness and gave a small nod of approval.

“At least someone came prepared,” he muttered, just loud enough for the front row to hear.

The pattern repeated throughout that first day. In each class, Nicholas positioned himself front and center, materials ready, attention focused like a laser, while his peers struggled with varying degrees of first-day disorganization. He watched as they rummaged through backpacks for writing utensils, asked to borrow paper, or worse, sat empty-handed with the apparent expectation that showing up was participation enough.

By the end of that first week, Nicholas had developed a detailed study schedule that accounted for every hour of his day. He woke at 5 AM, exercised for precisely 45 minutes, showered, ate a simple breakfast, and was on campus by 7:30 AM, regardless of when his first class started. He continued his habit of writing every day, recording new thoughts and observations. Those early morning hours in the library became sacred—uninterrupted time to review notes, complete readings, and prepare for the day ahead.

Between classes, when other students congregated in the campus center or sprawled on the quad's grass patches, Nicholas found quiet corners to study. Lunch was eaten quickly at his makeshift workstations—usually two protein bars and an apple, nothing that required much attention or cleanup. Every minute was valuable; every moment was accounted for.

What struck Nicholas profoundly during those early weeks was the syllabus that professors handed out at the beginning. His learning had been largely self-directed, pieced together from whatever books he could get his hands on. Now, amazingly, here were experts who had taken the time to organize entire fields of study into coherent progressions, who could contextualize facts within broader frameworks, who could answer questions he hadn't even known to ask. He experienced college with the same sense of boundless discovery Aladdin did when he “open sesamed” his way into the treasure cave.

His Psychology professor, Dr. Levine, was particularly impressive—a former clinical psychologist who could move seamlessly between theoretical concepts and real-world applications. During the third week of class, she returned to their first essay assignments. Nicholas had written his on behavioral conditioning, drawing connections to his observations in juvenile detention without explicitly mentioning his personal experience.

“Mr. Carter,” she said, handing back his paper with a red “A” circled at the top, “would you be willing to stay after class for a moment?”

When the room had emptied, she gestured for him to take a seat closer to her desk.

“Your essay was graduate-level work,” she said without preamble. “Your analysis of institutional behaviors and reinforcement patterns shows unusual insight. Have you studied psychology before?”

“Just on my own,” Nicholas replied. “Reading whatever I could find.”

She nodded, studying him with professional curiosity. “Well, you have a natural aptitude for it. I'd like to suggest some additional readings that might interest you, if you're open to it.”

Nicholas accepted the list she scribbled on a notepad with gratitude. He added it to his already substantial workload without hesitation. This was exactly what he wanted—to be challenged, to be pushed beyond the basics.

As the semester progressed, the contrast between Nicholas and most of his classmates became increasingly stark. Three weeks in, attendance in his early morning classes had already dropped noticeably. Those who did show up often arrived late, coffee in hand, apologies mumbled as they slid into seats at the back. During discussions, it became painfully obvious who had done the reading and who was trying to fake their way through with vague generalizations.

In his English Composition course, Professor Winters asked students to share their drafts for peer review. Nicholas found himself paired with a girl named Jessica, a marketing major who had clearly written her essay the night before.

“Sorry it's so rough,” she said, sliding her paper across the desk. “I had a thing last night and didn't get started until, like, midnight.”

Nicholas nodded without judgment and began reading. Her essay was a scattered collection of opinions without evidence, personal anecdotes without analysis, and sentences that wandered like lost tourists. He provided specific, constructive feedback, noting places where arguments could be strengthened, where transitions were needed, and where citations should be added.

When he handed her his draft in return, she stared at it for a long moment before looking up.

“Dude, did you type this up for real or is this like, from somewhere else?” she asked suspiciously.

“I wrote it,” Nicholas said simply.

“It's like... perfect. All formatted and everything. With footnotes.” She flipped to the last page. “And a bibliography. We need a bibliography?”

“It was in the assignment guidelines,” Nicholas pointed out.

Jessica sighed dramatically. “Great. Guess I'll be up all night again.”

Exchanges like this became routine. Classmates began to view Nicholas with a mixture of admiration, resentment, and bewilderment. Some labeled him a brownnoser or a teacher's pet. Others attempted to befriend him, largely in hopes of accessing his impeccable notes or receiving help with assignments. A few seemed genuinely curious about him, this oddly intense guy who never socialized, never complained, never seemed to struggle with the workload.

One of these was Marcus, a slightly older student who had served in the military before starting college. After repeatedly finding themselves the only two who had completed all the assigned reading for Sociology, Marcus took to sitting next to Nicholas.

“You remind me of some guys I knew in the service,” he commented one day as they packed up after class. “That same focus, like you're on mission time. Most of these kids are just wasting time.”

Nicholas considered this. “I'm building something.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Marcus nodded. “Mind if I ask what?”

Nicholas didn't have a simple answer. He was building knowledge, yes, but also possibilities, identities, futures that hadn't been available to him before.

“A life,” he said finally.

Marcus seemed to understand. He didn't press for details or try to draw Nicholas into the usual college friendships built around shared complaints and weekend plans. Instead, he occasionally shared articles related to their coursework or recommended books that went beyond the syllabus. A friendship that suited Nicholas perfectly.

Midterm week arrived, bringing with it a wave of panic that swept through the student body. The campus center became crowded with study groups cramming information they should have been absorbing all along. The library, usually Nicholas's quiet sanctuary, was suddenly packed with anxious faces and whispered pleas for assistance.

“Hey, Nicholas, right?” A young woman from his algebra class approached his table one evening. “We're putting together a study group for the midterm. Want to join? We could really use your help.”

“No, thank you,” he replied, not looking up from his notes. “I prefer to study alone.”

“Come on, man,” her companion added. “Professor Chen's tests are brutal. Everyone says so.”

Nicholas finally raised his eyes. “I've been preparing since the first day of class,” he stated simply. “Good luck with your group.”

He wasn't being deliberately unhelpful. He simply recognized a fundamental truth for him—education wasn't a team sport where stronger players could carry weaker ones across the finish line. Real learning required individual commitment, consistent effort, personal responsibility.

When midterm grades were posted, Nicholas found himself with a perfect 4.0 GPA. His professors had started to take special notice of him. In Philosophy, Professor Bennett had taken to calling on Nicholas when discussions lagged, knowing he would have something substantive to contribute. In Biology, Dr. Rashid had offered him a position as a lab assistant for the following semester.

“You show an unusual level of precision in your thinking,” she told him. “And your reports are exceptionally detailed. Have you considered a science major?”

Nicholas hadn't. He was still exploring, still sampling different fields of knowledge to determine where his interests and abilities best aligned. The opportunity was tempting, though.

As the semester continued, Nicholas maintained his rigorous schedule while his classmates experienced the predictable mid-semester slump. Attendance dropped further. Excuses multiplied.

“My computer crashed and I lost my essay.” “I had to go home for a family thing.” “I've been really stressed and couldn't focus.”

Nicholas heard these explanations offered to professors with increasing frequency. In his mindset, commitments were absolute, not suggestions. If you agreed to complete an assignment by a certain date, you did so, regardless of circumstances. If difficulties arose, you adapted, overcame.

This mindset set him apart as sharply as his study habits. When a massive snowstorm hit in November, canceling classes for two days, most students celebrated the unexpected break. Nicholas used the time to work ahead, completing readings and assignments for the following week.

“Mr. Carter,” his English professor commented dryly, “are you operating on a different academic calendar than the rest of us?”

A few chuckles rippled through the classroom. He didn't care. He understood that his approach was unusual, but he also understood what most of his classmates didn't: that education was a precious resource, one he had nearly lost forever. Every lecture, every reading, every assignment was life or death.

“With your academic record and personal discipline, you could go anywhere,” his academic advisor told him during registration for the spring semester. “Have you thought about where you might want to transfer after you complete your associate's degree?”

Nicholas hadn't allowed himself to think that far ahead yet. The idea that doors might be opening—doors to institutions he'd only read about, seemed impossibly distant..

“I'm focused on next semester for now,” he replied cautiously.

She smiled, understanding his measured approach. “Well, keep it in mind. And consider adding some extracurriculars next term. Graduate schools and transfer admissions like to see well-rounded applicants.”

Nicholas nodded, though the concept of “well-rounded” was foreign. He made his life deliberately narrow, focused on learning. The suggestion that he should dilute that focus, even slightly, felt wrong on every level.

The day before finals began, Nicholas was in the library as usual, reviewing his meticulously organized notes. The large study area had once again transformed into a last-minute cramming zone, filled with stressed students surrounded by energy drinks and junk food, frantically trying to absorb a semester's worth of material in hours.

At a nearby table, a group from his psychology class were quizzing each other on theories of cognitive development. Their information was jumbled, their understanding shallow. Nicholas could hear them confusing Piaget with Vygotsky, misconstruing basic concepts that had been covered repeatedly throughout the term.

Nicholas returned to his notes, feeling a new appreciation for his own unusual path. The hardships he'd experienced, the isolation of solitary confinement, these had shaped his approach to education in ways that were serving him well now. His classmates might view him as strange, even alien, but he was exactly where he needed to be, doing exactly what he needed to do.

Finals week passed in a blur of exams, papers, and labs. Nicholas approached each one with the same methodical focus he'd maintained all semester. When it was over, he allowed himself a small celebration: a cup of good coffee at the campus cafe and an hour of reading for pleasure rather than an assignment.

As he sat there, watching students rush to pack up their dorm rooms and head home for winter break, he reflected on his first semester of college. The contrast between him and his classmates remained stark, but he was beginning to understand it better. They were exploring identities, testing boundaries, discovering who they might become. Nicholas was on a different journey—not discovering himself, but deliberately creating himself, piece by carefully considered piece.

When his final grades came, 4.0, Nicholas felt a quiet satisfaction. But he wasn’t there for the grades or even the diploma. The knowledge was what he wanted.

As the campus emptied for the holiday break, Nicholas continued his daily routine. His education wouldn't pause just because classes weren't in session. He had already collected the reading lists for his spring courses and requested the textbooks through the library's interlibrary loan system. While the others took weeks off to relax and recharge, he would be preparing, advancing, building.

On New Year's Eve, while everyone else was out celebrating, Nicholas sat in his apartment, a furnished studio above an antique store, with a cup of coffee and a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

In a certain light, his life might have seemed joyless, this relentless pursuit of knowledge without the typical college experiences. But for Nicholas, there was a profound satisfaction in the structure, the purpose, the clear progression from one level of understanding to the next.