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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 71
‘Why did he have to come and ruin the one bit of solace I had
won for myself?’ I asked myself.

Finding no answer, I resigned to a bed I was offered by the
bartender.
Come morning I felt both better and worse. On the one hand,
I wasn’t sick anymore. It seems booze and brawls keep the
disease-demons at bay. On the other hand, I was sore all over
from far too many blows. I forced myself to get up and bought
myself a meal, paying with the last penny.
A man stood above me as I ate my breakfast. I peered at him
from my right eye, because the left was swollen shut. He wore

a soldier’s uniform with chain mail and leather armor and had
behind him several foot soldiers. His boots were shiny; I coveted
them.
“Adam?” He inquired in a commanding voice.
“Yeah,” I replied sternly, though deep inside I was worried
that he’d come to arrest me.
“You’re charged with disturbing the peace,” he said.

“Who laid the charges?” I asked, feeling my heart race in
dread of incarceration.
“You know who, you bloody broke his face,” the Sheriff replied.
I laughed as he mentioned a broken face.
“T’was a bloody good fight,” I replied and got up in a
non-threatening fashion.
“Indeed,” he replied as he motioned me to start walking and
followed closely behind. My legs shook and I worked to hide it
every step of the way. I wanted to go to prison with dignity.

“You know …” the Sheriff said when the barracks were in
sight, “… we could use someone like you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, too frightened and angry to
attribute any meanings to his words.