The city was called Westfield, somewhere in Kentucky, a place large enough to have crime, small enough for your mother to hear about your ruin before you understood it yourself. Miles was not from there. He had come five years earlier from a smaller town farther west, back when he still believed moving was a cure. He had tried warehouses, kitchens, garages, night shifts at a gas station. Wherever there was work without too many questions, he fit. Wherever there was a paycheck enough for rent, gas, beer, and the small stupid things that later become major needs, he stayed a while. Then he left or got fired. He was not lazy. That was the problem. He worked. He just worked like a man who could not see past the next week.