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wanted things to be as similar to the pen as possible. Others moved in with their moms. Couldn’t really handle life on the outside without someone getting their grub and cleaning up after them. But not Mahmud—he was gonna be a soldier. Get a place of his own, travel, move. Slay mad bitches, make fat stacks. STYLE. But then the image of Gürhan’s mug killed all his dreaming like a punch to the face.
    He crossed Långholmsgatan. In the background, the traffic thundered. The sky was gray. The street was gray. The buildings were grayest of all.
    The parole office shared an entrance with a podiatrist and a pension fund office. He thought, Were only P joints allowed in this pussy place? A janitor was waxing the linoleum floor. Could have been his dad, his
abu,
Beshar. But his
abu
wouldn’t have to live that way anymore. Mahmud was gonna provide. Promise.
    At the welcome desk, they didn’t even slide back the glass partition for him. He had to lean forward to reach the mike.
    “Hey, hi. I’m supposed to see Erika Ewaldsson. Ten minutes ago.”
    “Okay, if you’ll have a seat she’ll be with you shortly.”
    He sat down in the waiting room. Why did they always make him wait? They acted like the screws in the slammer. Power-hungry humiliation experts: fags.
    He eyed the worthless magazines and papers.
Dagens Nyheter, Café,
and
Gracious Home
. Grinned to himself: What clowns would show up at the parole office and read
Gracious Home
?
    Then he heard Erika’s voice.
    “Hi, Mahmud. Glad you made it. Almost on time, in fact.”
    Mahmud glanced up. Erika looked the way she usually did. Yellow pants and a brownish poncho thing up top. She wasn’t exactly thin—her ass was as wide as Saudi Arabia. She had green eyes and wore a thin gold cross around her neck. Damn, there was that metal taste in his mouth again.
    Mahmud followed Erika to her office. Inside, the blinds created a striped light. Posters on the walls. A desk piled with papers, binders, and plastic folders. How many homies did she hassle, anyway?
    Two armchairs. A small round table between them. The fabric on the chairs was pilling. He leaned back.
    “So, Mahmud, how are you?”
    “I’m fine. It’s all good.”
    “Great. How’s your dad? Beshar, that’s his name, right?”
    Mahmud still lived at home. It sucked, but racist landlords were real skeptical toward a prison
blatte.
    “He’s good too. It’s not exactly perfect, living there. But it’ll be fine.” Mahmud wanted to tone down the problem. “I’m applying for jobs. Had two interviews this week.”
    “Wow, that’s great! Any offers?”
    “No, they said they’d get back to me. That’s what they always say.”
    Mahmud thought about the latest interview. He’d purposely gone wearing only a tank top. The tattoos piled up. The text:
Only trust yourself
on one arm and
Alby Forever
on the other. The ink spoke its own aggressive language: If there’s trouble—you’ll get in deep. Watch yourself.
    When would she understand? He wasn’t gonna let a job rob him of his freedom. He wasn’t made for a nine-to-five life; he’d known that since he came to Sweden as a kid.
    She studied him. For too long.
    “What happened to your cheek?”
    Wrong question. Gürhan’s slap wouldn’t ordinarily’ve busted his cheek—but the dude’d worn a massive signet ring. Had torn up half his face. The cut was covered with surgical tape. What was he gonna say?
    “Nothing. Sparred a little with a buddy. You know.”
    Not the world’s best excuse, but maybe she’d fall for it.
    Erika seemed to be considering him. Mahmud tried to look out through the blinds. Look unaffected.
    “I hope there’s no trouble, Mahmud. If there is, you can tell me. I can help you, you know.”
    Mahmud thought, Yeah, sure you can help me. Irony overload.
    Erika dropped the subject. Droned on. Told him about a job-application project that the jobmarketpreparationunemploymentinsuranceoffice, or something like that, was running. For