His trial had concluded; he had taken a plea; and before he was transferred to the long-term facility, he wanted, the letter said, a short meeting.

I went.

I am still not entirely sure why, except that I wanted to look at him one last time with clear eyes and owe him nothing afterward.

We sat on opposite sides of a thick glass panel.

He was hollowed out in his orange jumpsuit — thin, gray at the temples, his hands shaking as he lifted the receiver.

“Eight years,” he said, his voice a scrape of its old self.

“I took the plea this morning.”