In a burst, he takes the office in: an unmade bed; a cluttered desk; framed pictures; lace on everything. And, in the corner, Felipe and Ryan, crouched in front of a full-size fridge, yanking on the chain locked around its handle.
"You didn't even think she might have another lock on here, did you, pendejo?" Felipe is hissing, but he looks up when he hears Peter at the door, his mouth dropping open.
"Pedro," he says, "what're you—"
"She's coming," Peter pants, "she's—"
A hand lands on his shoulder. Peter gasps, whirls around—
Ms. Charlise is standing right behind him.
The thin layer of sweat that constantly covers Peter's body goes cold. Ms. Charlise's expression is almost unreadable: the only change from her usual jowly stare is that her red-rimmed eyes are slightly narrowed.
She digs her fingers into Peter's shoulder, reminding him so forcefully of Mrs. Arlington he has to remind himself to take a breath. He expects her to slap him. But Ms. Charlise just pushes him behind her, into the living room, and takes a step into her office.
Felipe remains slumped on the floor, mouth hanging slightly open, all the color gone from his face, but Ryan gets slowly to his feet, his expression hard.
"Mr. Overton," says Ms. Charlise, her voice as flat as it always is, "why am I not surprised?"
Ryan spits at her feet.
Finally, Felipe looks at Peter. His face is a reflection of the nausea Peter feels, the horror. Ms. Charlise's expressionless is somehow worse than outright anger; it fills Peter with the same dread he felt waiting in the Arlington's basement the night he got arrested, knowing something terrible was coming but knowing what it was.
Slowly, like a cat prowling after an injured bird, Ms. Charlise steps over to her desk. Felipe, Ryan, and Peter follow her with their eyes, none of them moving.
Ms. Charlise picks up the phone, presses a number on the speed dial.
There is a terrible, deadly silence while she holds the receiver to her ear.
"Yes," she says, "This is Charlise Benning at number nine-oh-seven. Three of our boys have just attempted a theft, in direct violation of their parole."
Felipe leaps to his feet.
"Ms. Charlise, no, please—"
Ms. Charlise holds up a hand, and Felipe falls silent.
"I'll need at least three officers, and probably a van. No. I'll contact their parole officers directly. Yes. Thank you."
She drops the phone into the cradle. To Peter, it sounds like a gavel.
"Ms. Charlise," Felipe says, "please, I'm sorry. Please, I only got another month, please don't do this, I can't go back."
Peter has never seen his bunkmate cry. The sound of Felipe's voice cracking makes his own throat constrict painfully, but he doesn't know what to do. He's rooted to his spot on the sticky shag rug, his own mouth hanging open uselessly.
In the distance, he hears sirens.
Ms. Charlise tilts her head and looks away from Felipe without acknowledging his tears, toward Ryan.
"And how long did you have before your parole officer declared you fit to go home?" she says. "Three weeks, wasn't it? And yet here we are."
She steps closer to him, and Peter has a wild urge to warn her off: Ryan is looking at her with an expression that reminds Peter of nothing so much as a coiled snake. He says nothing, though, and Ms. Charlise goes on.
"Tell me, Mr. Overton: was it worth it?"
This is when Peter realizes: Felipe and Ryan are at the halfway house because they are transitioning from juvenile detention centers. A theft like this will be a mark against them, could mean more jail time. But Peter isn't on parole. He's only here because he isn't wanted anywhere else.
He steps forward.
"Ms. Charlise—"
"It was my fault."
Everybody looks around.
Karen in standing in the entrance to the living room, shining with sweat but straight-backed, her expression set, determined. She is looking not at Peter but at Ms. Charlise, who turns slowly away from Ryan to face her.
Karen steps forward, puts a hand on Peter's shoulder. Unlike the other hands that have touched him there in the months since Ben died, hers is firm but gentle, and she only squeezes once, reassuringly, as she pushes him behind her.
The sirens are getting closer.
"What was that, Miss Anders?" says Ms. Charlise.
"I told them to do it," says Karen. "I told them about the fridge. I let them out of the yard. Don't punish them, Miss Charlise, it was my fault."
"Miss K, you can't—!"
"Be quiet, Felipe," says Karen sharply. "It's very noble of you to try and protect me, but this is on me, do you understand me?"
Ryan is looking at Karen like he's never seen her before. Felipe is crying freely now but trying to rein himself in. Peter thinks he's probably the only one close enough to see that Karen is shaking.
Ms. Charlise narrows her eyes.
"That's a very serious offense, Ms. Anders."
"Yes, ma'am," says Karen. "But to be fair, I did try to talk to you about the food."
For the first time, a flash of anger crosses Ms. Charlise's face.
"You realize you'll be fired for this."
"No!" say Felipe and Peter at the same time.
Karen holds up a hand.