The police officer in charge of the release took his keyes from his belt and unfastened the handcuffs binding Nicholas Sharpe. Nic bounced on the balls of his feet, a knowing smile plastered across his pink lips.

As the cuffs fell away from his hands, Nic stretche both arms above his head nd breathed in a deep breath, satisfied with life. The air was fresh, the grass was green, and he was free. He nodded at the officer with a grin and begun his departure from the old, smelly county jail.

He lifted his hand to his brow, creating a visor for the sunlight, and wrinkled his nose at the smell drifting off of him. He dropped his hand and sighed, wondering what exactly he could do about it. He hadn't worn street-clothes in a good two years, and he hadn't seen the plaid buttonup and leather jacket they gave back to him in what seemed like forever. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he strolled down the sidewalk, scanning the area for a laundromat. A few loose quarters jingled in his pocket. Perhaps it would be enough to pay for a cean load of laundry.

He had gotten back the $1.50 along with his clothes. It was all he had had on him at the time of his arrest. He stopped to soak in the sunlight and laughed at the thought. Actually, he had been carrying a lot of things on him at the time of his arrest, and that was precisely the point.
Two pairs of brand new shoes, a shiny silver watch, and one pack of gum, along with the one dollar and fifty cents, was what had been found on his person that fateful afternoon two years ago on the 23rd of March.

Shoplifting was the end of any possibility of a clean record for him. As he walked down the sidewalks, he pondered the offense. Two prior convictions of shoplifting and a highschool record of vandalism ensured that he didn't get off easy the third time he was caught.

He exhaled deeply and surveyed the town. It seemed to have been ages ago since he last saw the streets; he hardly remembered the layout anymore. Upn finding no laundromat, he sloly released his hold on the quarters in his pocket. As they jingled, a new and better idea stirred in the brewery of his brain as he stared through the glass doors of a convenience store across the street.

He could do with some gum. In the jailhouse he had been able to trade things here and there for a piece of two, but the only kind that people could ever seem to get their hands on was always cinnamon. He furrowed his brow, remembering how little he enjoyed the taste. The dollar and fifty cents rattled in his pocket. He had more than enough money to buy himself a pack of the good, savory green spearmint gum.
He just prayed he would be able keep his hands off of everything else, too.