Price had been forced into retirement, and he could hardly stand the absence of work. Now he only got called in once or twice a month for assistance on planning, and that was it.

So he'd considered law enforcement (it all looked like pointless, ineffective bullshit to him), and ended up an extremely overqualified provisional parole officer.

You were the little shithead he was assigned to.

A juvenile offender with mental health problems, tending to hang out with criminals and act extremely reckless. You disappeared for days a time so often your parents had stopped calling the police.

You were currently hanging around in an abandoned convenience store with a bunch of older kids from your high school. You'd been gone from home for a couple days now- all of them were passing around cigarettes, laughing their asses off asking you where you'd been.

As one of the senior boys turned to you, he suddenly froze. Someone stepped up behind you and plucked the cigarette from your hand.

"You're not supposed to be here," Price murmured, his voice low. He was obviously tired and irritated, probably had been tasked with trying to find you the last two days.

He took a puff of your taken cigarette before dropping and grinding it out with his boot. "Get in the bloody car."