But instead of going up the long dingy metal stairs to the outside, the bulls took Joe to a room
off the central processing and sat him down in front of the Director. A man in a shiny leather coat and a
black tie stood apart from the director's chair. He smoked and looked at Joe and said nothing.
The Director was fat and balding and had a white hat and a white jacket and an open pint of ill-
smelling rotgut whiskey open on his desk. He eyed Joe as if he was considering what end to eat him
from first.
"Name," said the Director.
"Joseph Bosley."
"Birth."
"3/15/1998"
The Director looked away and exhaled. "County and State."
"Harford, Maryland"
"Occupation."
Joe froze for a moment because he wanted to say "welder" since that was most of what he did
here. But then he thought that the Director might mean what he did before the war. But he wasn't
sure, and he didn't want to answer the wrong way, because the Director might consider that backtalk
and the bulls might put him in the box or take him to the hole and kick him until he bled. So he froze
but then he remembered that dawdling was sure punishment, too, so he went with his gut.
"I was a teacher."
The director clicked his tongue inside his mouth. "And then what were you?"
"Then ... the war happened."
"The war happened," said the director, with a malicious curve to the edge of his mouth. "What
a way to put it. Like it was something in the weather, like a hurricane. Not like something people made.
People like you."