West End(ing)

The cabin smells of mould and old coffee. The kid in the cell keeps pacing grooves into the floorboards and swears he’ll go quiet, go home, and be good. I’ve heard it all before and don’t buy much of it. My deputy says I should eat, I say I should sleep, but neither of us moves. Outside, the town laughs too loudly for how late it is. It's Halloween, but still. I count my breaths, count my sins, and count the seconds until this kid is out of my hair. Deputy asks, soft as a hymn, “What’s your call?” I’m about to answer when the door answers for me... a knock.