Logan's POV
The DPA's holding cell smells like fermented piss, antiseptic, and soggy stone—like they've tried to scrub the stench of fear from these walls and failed.
I press my palm against the glass partition, fogging it with my breath. On the other side, my father sits slumped on a metal bench, his wrists cuffed to the table. The sight punches the air from my lungs.
They shaved his hair.
The long, dark brown dark curls Mama loved braiding at the start of spring with daisies strung through them, gone.
I know if I asked him, he'd joke that he preferred it this way. He's always talked about going bald. Said he was getting too old for a flowing mane. He'd tried the bald look once when I was still a cub sucking my thumb— triggered by some bad case of head lice—and discovered he liked how low maintenance it was. Mama said I'd cried so hard he'd spent weeks slathering his scalp with hair oils just to regrow it for me.
