His chances, as I saw them, were nil. He’d wind up just another violent man fated to the life he’d always known, carried along by forces he couldn’t fight alone. As far as I could tell, Donte had been honest with me. He didn’t pretend to be a good guy. He knew he’d fucked up. And he’d told me, too, how impossible it was to live on an intern’s paycheck in San Francisco. When his time at the halfway house was over, he’d planned to move back to his mother’s house, smack in the middle of the neighborhood that set him on his troublesome road so many years earlier, not because he wanted to, but
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