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ever cared enough to love him regardless of his shortcomings.
    The twenty-two-year-old Ellis was a product of an affair between his Puerto Rican mother and an African American father. Tirrell’s grandmother often reminded him of how much of his father, Curtis, was in him. There was a lot of his mother in him, too, especially his volatile temper. Tirrell missed them both more than he ever confided to anyone. They died when he was ten years old, after the car his father was driving skidded on a patch of black ice and careened off an embankment on their way back to Atlanta from Tennessee. Curtis Sr. and Betty Ellis took Tirrell in without hesitation; regardless, he never really felt that he was wanted or belonged.
    Changes began to manifest in his behavior soon after. Initially, he was withdrawn and despondent, but once he settled into a new school and had to make new friends, he began to lash out. Tirrell was expelled from school three times for fighting and ended up repeating the fifth grade. That set the tone for what was to come.
    â€œI’m just gonna love that devil right out of you,” Betty would say. After many deserved whippings, she would pull the penitent child to her generous bosom as he cried tears of repentance. She loved him, knowing all too well that it would take more than a belt to his naked backside to cleanse him of the anger that festered within him.
    Kevin didn’t help matters. When he was sure no one was within earshot, he viciously reminded Tirrell that he was their father’s bastard son. It didn’t matter what Betty did to show him that he was as much an Ellis as either Kevin or his sister, Jacqui; he knew he was still an outsider.
    Still unsure of what he would say to his grandmother, Tirrell reached into his duffel bag and pulled out an envelope that contained tangible proof of his dishonor: his DD-214 discharge and separation papers.
    â€œDishonorable discharge,” he spat. “I’ll be damned!”
    For a half second he thought about ripping the papers up; instead he stuffed them back inside the envelope and shoved it in his bag. Extracting an iPod from one of its pockets, he plugged in the ear buds. The driving groove of Kanye West’s “Stronger” began to soothe his anxiety. He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes and mouthed the words: “That that don’t kill me can only make me stronger. I know I got to be right now ’cause I can’t get no wronger.”
    By seven o’clock that evening, the bus pulled up outside the downtown terminal. The passengers nosily gathered their bags and filed off. Tirrell stepped onto the sidewalk and inhaled Atlanta. He turned and observed the varied faces inside the bus station: some greeting loved ones—others sending them off. But there was no one there to welcome him. He needed to keep the fact that he was back under wraps for a little while longer. He thought about calling one of his partners to pick him up, but instead decided that it was female attention that he needed.
    As he started up the block to the MARTA transit station he was amused by the stir he caused. With his well-defined physique, mesmerizing hazel eyes (more brown than green), and deep dimples that showed when he smiled, it was easy to see why men and women alike tried to capture his notice.
    This area of downtown was known for its questionable inhabitants. All sorts of interesting and unsavory characters loitered there, especially after dark. It seemed to be as much a point of departure as it was a haven for mischief. The homeless weren’t the only obstacles in or around Forsyth Street. The vicinity was inundated with surreptitious exchanges of drugs and sex.
    Tirrell felt a tug on the strap of his bag and sharply turned to see a scantily clad woman in an unflattering platinum wig.
    â€œHey, cuteness. You lookin’ for a good time?”
    Tirrell couldn’t even offer the woman a smile. He shook