172, Marshall Drive.

I looked up from the scrap of paper to the building. An unremarkable house, set between two unremarkable houses, facing another unremarkable house across the street. This was it. I rang the doorbell, and thought back to how I came to be there.

I had just gotten out of jail. Three years plus time served for beating up a guy in the street (he had it coming, the bloody fash). Not much, but jail can be tough. Fortunately Michael took me under his wing.

Michael, Tiny Mike (his nickname, but never call him that to his face), was tough but kind. He’d almost finished his sentence when I got in (never bothered asking what he did), and we’d stuck up a quick friendship. He showed me the ropes, shielded me from the harshest stuff. And at a couple points we had become more than friends. On his last day, when I commented that I had no place to go after my sentence was over, he pushed a piece of paper in my hand and said “Come find me when you get out.”

That was two and a half years ago. I hadn’t heard from him since, but held on that scrap of paper as my lifeline. When I finally got out I took a long trek across town, which brought me here.

172, Marshall Drive.

I was about to ring the doorbell again, when the front door opened and I found myself face to face with a woman. She was dressed in a skirt and crop top, hair bound in a ponytail, and she smiled when she saw me. “Hallo Frank! So you finally got out, did you.”

“I’m sorry, miss, do I know you?” I asked, puzzled. “Is Mike home?”

“Ah, come on now, you’re going to offend me if you keep this up” she said, crossing her arms.

It was something in her voice. A playful tone I’d heard before, but where? I studied her face, saw the resemblance. She could just have been a sister, but then I noticed that mole under her left eye…

“Michael?”

“Michelle,” she gently corrected me, as she bent over and lifted my duffel bag. “Come on in, Frank, you must be tired. Fancy a cup of tea? I’ve just put the kettle on.”