The captain led him to a small, stuffy room up in the executive area where the warden and other prison administrators had their offices. The room had one window, tightly closed and so grimy that the morning sunlight hardly brightened it. An oblong table nearly filled the room, its veneer chipped and dull. Two men in expensive-looking business suits were seated at it, their chairs almost scraping the bare gray walls.

“Sit,” said the captain, pointing with his wand to the chair at the foot of the table. Wondering what this was all about, and whether he would miss his breakfast, Eberly slowly sat down. The captain stepped out into the hallway and softly closed the door.

“You are Malcolm Eberly?” said the man at the head of the table. He was rotund, fleshy-faced, his cheeks pink and his eyes set deep in his face. Eberly thought of a pig.

“Yes, I am,” Eberly replied. Then he added, “Sir.”

“Born Max Erlenmeyer, if our information is correct,” said the man at the pig’s right. He was prosperous-looking in an elegant dark blue suit and smooth, silver-gray hair. He had the look of a yachtsman to him: Eberly could picture him in a double-breasted blazer and a jaunty nautical cap.

“I had my name legally changed when—”

“That’s a lie,” said the yachtsman, as lightly as he might ask for a glass of water. An Englishman, from his accent, Eberly decided tentatively. That could be useful, perhaps.

“But, sir—”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the pig. “If you wish to be called Eberly, that is what we will call you. Fair enough?”

Eberly nodded, completely baffled by them.

“How would you like to be released from prison?” the pig asked.

Eberly could feel his eyes go wide. But he quickly controlled his reactions and asked, “What would I have to do to be released?”