People who wear or carry badges sometimes work in mysterious ways. Early on the morning of December 10, three days after my supervised release ended, my mother and Steve were at my apartment in the last stage of packing up my things and making arrangements for moving the furniture. A knock at the door. The minions of law enforcement had finally shown up, a trio of them this time: U.S. Marshal Brian Salt, an FBI agent whose name my mom didn’t catch, and my nemesis, Agent Ken McGuire, whom I had still never seen or met in person. My mother brazenly told them that she and I had had an argument a few days earlier. I had left, she said, and she hadn’t heard from me since and didn’t know where I was. She added, "Kevin’s probation is up."