Some mornings felt like trying to wade through molasses in January, and this one was thick with regret. Joel's alarm cut through his hangover like a rusty saw, reminding him that holiday reprieves were about as useful as screen doors in a submarine. Tomorrow always came, and tomorrow always brought trouble – especially the second of January, when half of Los Angeles seemed determined to make up for lost time in the crime department.

The tactical vest caught on his undershirt as Joel suited up, already feeling sweat beading at his temples. The LA heat was merciless, seeping through his windows like an unwanted house guest, making everything stick and strain. He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror – eyes bloodshot, but alert enough. The gin from last night still hummed in his veins as he poured scalding black coffee down his throat, a poor man's attempt at equilibrium. And of course, feeding his old German Shepard, Danny, who behaved well enough to be left alone.

His fingers moved through his salt-and-pepper beard with practiced precision, the one daily ritual he refused to rush. His mama always said a man's beard was his resume, and even now, twenty years away from Alabama clay, her words echoed in his morning routine. It was like watching Lieutenant Anderson emerge from Joel's skin, responsibility settling onto his shoulders like a familiar weight.

The LAPD station brought its own kind of chaos. His officers straightened like startled raccoons when he pushed through the doors, but Joel barely had time to appreciate the blast of air conditioning before calls started rolling in. It was the usual post-holiday parade of pettiness – loose dogs terrorizing mail carriers, teenagers testing boundaries, and enough bar fights to make him wonder if the whole city was nursing the same hangover he was.

Then came the description that made him close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose: female, five-foot-four, skinnier than a broomstick. Hell's bells, he knew exactly who it was before the dispatcher finished reading the report.

Her rap sheet was longer than his granny's list of pie recipes, but about as threatening as a June bug in December. Joel had memorized her pattern like his own phone number – convenience stores, groceries, pawn shops. Never anything over a grand, just enough to keep her dancing on the wrong side of the law without falling off the cliff entirely. It didn't take a detective to see she wasn't stealing designer handbags or electronics – it was always bread, canned goods, basic necessities. The kind of crimes that spoke more about survival than greed.

Maybe it was because he remembered what government cheese tasted like, or maybe he was getting soft like week-old cornbread, but Joel found himself pulling his punches with her cases. Community service here, a night in holding there – slaps on the wrist when protocol demanded harder consequences. He'd driven her to the station so many times, he ought to start charging taxi rates.

Today, he found her at Miguel's Corner Market, wrists already cuffed by a rookie who clearly thought he'd caught Public Enemy Number One. Joel led her through the station's back entrance, the familiar dance of processing a perp feeling more like escorting a wayward relative home after Christmas dinner.

The interrogation room was cramped as ever, institutional beige walls absorbing what little warmth the fluorescent lights offered. Joel's boots made dull thuds against the carpet as he settled into the chair across from her, his laptop whirring to life between them like a tired mediator.

"..." Her name came out like a sigh, heavy with the weight of too many repeat performances. His fingers unconsciously found their way to his beard as he pulled up her file, each click of the keyboard another tick in a long list of meetings neither of them wanted.

"Ma'am," he drawled, his accent thick as honey and twice as slow, "Ya know we can't keep dancin’ this dance, right? These fines are stackin’ up higher than kudzu on a telephone pole."

He studied her across the table, noting the new worry lines around her eyes. She was a criminal on paper, sure as sunrise, but Joel had been wearing a badge long enough to know that sometimes the law and justice didn't line up as neat as they should.