“I think we both knew that was going nowhere, Cinnamon Stick.” I roll my eyes at the nickname he gave me when I was thirteen years old, tearfully confessing my great crime of forgetting to pay for a cinnamon stick sucker at the Save More on Third and Monroe. I sat myself down in front of his desk and cried myself silly, holding up my wrists for the cuffs I was so sure he would be forced to use. Shockingly, he did not feel the need to put me into custody.
