It’s already been a long day, and my shirt is sticking to my back in the sweltering heat, but I can’t go home just yet. I have one more check up on the client, and all I can do is hope that my gut feeling about him is wrong. He’s been my client for about four months now, and so far, he seems to toe the line. He’s answered every question I’ve asked him, has shown me proof of gainful employment, he’s not been seen with any of his former associates, and yet I have the feeling he’s keeping something from me.

I can’t explain it, this sixth sense I have, but I guess it’s what my boss calls my radar. She says it’s one of the things that makes me such a good parole officer. Maybe, but it’s also one of the things that can make my job complicated. Like in this case, anyone else would’ve been content with the information provided, but no, I can’t let it go. This tingle down my spine, this churning in my stomach every time I meet with this guy, everything tells me something is off. And I can’t let that go.

It’s why a find myself at the end of a long, hot, busy day on my way for a surprise visit to the cheap motel he’s staying in after his release from prison. I’m allowed to do these, obviously. And it’s not like I don’t do them with anyone else. I do, but usually not when there has been zero indication that one is necessary. In this case, I have nothing else to go on but my intuition, which is telling me to keep digging.

The fact that I’m single only plays into me being a workaholic. Most of my coworkers have a family to get home to, so they’ll think twice before taking on more hours. Me, I have no one waiting for me, so I can work as many hours as I want to.

I hope to have that too, someday soon, someone will be waiting for me. Hookups have never been my thing, but lately, I’ve become even more reluctant to engage in those one-night stands. They’re too messy for me, too disruptive in my life and my routines. I want something a little more permanent. Someone a little more permanent, I should say. Someday…

I park my car two blocks away from the motel, not because I don’t want to be seen anywhere near it, but because all the parking spots are taken, as usual. This is not the best part of town, which is why, as always, I am grateful for the fact that I drive a company car and not my own.

There are a few men hanging around outside near the entrance to the motel, and I give them a short nod as I walk inside. Usually, I report myself to the front desk, as is custom, but in this case, I really want my arrival to be a surprise. In case Jake has some kind of arrangement with the front desk, I don’t want them to announce my presence and give him the opportunity to hide anything.

So, I simply walk up to his room, take a deep breath, and knock forcefully on the door. It only takes seconds before the door is yanked open, and I come face-to-face with my client, a six-foot-seven former basketball prodigy who got addicted to painkillers and then started selling them to support his habit. He’s still young enough to turn his life around after a short stint in prison, and I really hope he will.

However, a quick peek over his shoulder into the room makes it crystal clear that my gut feeling was spot on.

“Jake,” I say, my stomach sinking. “Unannounced house visit. Can I come in, please?”

This is not a question that has any other answer but “yes” and we both know it. Still, Jake hesitates.

“Anything you want to tell me, Jake?” I ask.

He sighs and drops his shoulders. “I don’t know what to say. Busted, I guess.” He opens the door wide to let me in, and I get a better look at the twenty or so small plastic bags lined up on the table. There is also a wide variety of pharmacy bottles, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s doing. I close the door behind me and turn around to face him.

“This doesn’t look good,” I tell him. “Can you give me any other explanation for this other than the fact that you’re dealing again?”

He shakes his head, his shoulders dropping even lower. He’s twenty-eight years old, and he’s about to go to prison for the second time, and this time the judge won’t be so lenient on him. Violating your parole conditions is one thing but violating them by committing the exact same crime you got sentenced for before, that’s not good.

“I have to call the cops, Jake. Before I do that, can you at least tell me what happened?”

He lowers his long frame into a chair that looks like a kid’s chair with him in it. “I was determined to change my life, you know,” he says. “All these guys in prison who’d been there a few times, they told me how hard it was to make a fresh start, to catch a break as a convicted felon. I believed them, but at the same time I thought it would be different for me. After all, I don’t come from a crime background, and it’s not like I’ve been surrounded by gangs or friends who were involved in shit like this my whole life. I come from a nice, white, middle-class suburban family. I just got sucked into this because of that stupid injury I had and that addiction I never was able to kick.”

His story is a familiar one, one that I have heard a lot from clients like him. They think it will be different for them because of their skin color or their background or the type of crime they committed. They don’t understand that being a felon is hard no matter what your skin color is. That being said, non-white clients face even more hurdles when they try to rebuild their lives. Go figure.

“But you managed to get that job as a dishwasher, correct?” I ask.

“I did, but do you know how much I make there? Or rather I should say, how little? It pays eleven bucks an hour, man. There’s no way I can live on that.”

“We talked about this, Jake. You knew it was going to be rough for the first few years, until you had proven to potential employers you were a changed man. That restaurant is known for giving felons a chance, and you said you were interested in the industry, so if you had stayed there, they would’ve given you a chance to climb up the ladder. You could’ve made a career there.”

Jake shakes his head. “Man, even the cooks there make practically nothing,” he says. “In five years, I still wouldn’t have made enough to be able to live the kind of life I want.”

And there it is, the reason why so many of my clients fall back into their old lives. It’s hard to adjust your life to the financial reality of having a real-life job, instead of making quick and fast money the illegal way. Whatever Jake was dealing paid well, and he could afford a life of going out for dinner, partying with his friends, buying presents for girlfriends and whatnot. And now that that money is gone and he has to make do on minimum wage like so many other people, he can’t make the transition to a life that simple, without those luxuries.

I get it, and it’s why I talk about this with my clients so much, especially in the first few weeks. It pisses me off that despite that, Jake still made the choice that money was more important than his future. I get so frustrated with choices like this because I want better for them. Jake is not a bad guy, not by any standard. He just sucks at making the right choices.

“Well, I could point out that even if you had been living on minimum wage five years from now, you would at least be a free man, but I guess that’s a moot point by now. I’m sorry, Jake. I had hoped better for you.”

Jake is quiet for a bit before he answers. “Yeah, I am sorry to. But mostly disappointed in myself. I really thought I would be better, that I would not go down this road again. I guess I wasn’t as strong as I thought I was.”

I take my phone out of my pocket to call it in to the cops. They’ll have to collect the evidence against him and arrest him, of course. At least he didn’t try to blame it on someone else. Or, the absolute most horrific cliché clients keep trying to feed me: this is not what it looks like. He’s owning up to his mistakes, so maybe that means there’s hope for him after all.

“It’s not about being strong enough, Jake. It’s about building habits every day that take you closer to your goal of the kind of life you want. And even now, it’s not too late for you. You can still turn your life around; it’s just gonna take longer than you may have wanted.”

He sends me a sad smile. “You know, Mr. Stone, one of the things I appreciate most about you is your relentless optimism. You gave me some really good advice along the way. I just wish I had listened to you.”

I sigh with a sad smile, not feeling the optimism at all. “So do I.”

The calls to the cops is quick, as they know me, and a few minutes later they show up to collect Jake and the evidence. I shake his hand before they handcuff him and put him in the squad car. One of the cops slaps me on my back. “Tough call, man.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I hate doing this.”

The guy’s eyes are warm as he meets mine. “I know it’s horribly trite, but it’s true. You can’t save them all. At least, that’s what I tell myself when my efforts fail. We try our best, you know? That’s all we can do.”

I think about his words as I drive home. He’s right, of course. It’s one of the things you learn in a job like mine or like his. We can’t save them all. But I can damn well try. And defeats like today, losing a client like Jake, it hurts. I know it’s not my fault. I know it was his choice to do this, but I still take it hard. It’s not that I blame myself, but incidents like this do make me wonder if my approach is the right one.

I have a long list of clients I am responsible for right now, and I know that statistically, I will lose a few more of them to their old lives. So no, I can’t save them all. But there’s a few I will have to work harder for, to make sure they stay on the right side of the law. There’s a few that I refuse to lose.

And at the very top of that list is a foul-mouthed, tatted up bad boy who stubbornly refuses to vacate my dreams. And oh, the dreams are sweet. And sexy. No wonder, since they’re fueled by the overabundance of videos of him on the Internet…and on my computer.

Some days, I wish I had never met him, because he’s becoming an addiction unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. But other days, I am grateful that I’m responsible for him, at least professionally. Because I will fight for him. I will do whatever I can to make sure he turns his life around.

And I’ll be damned if I lose him.