The soldiers hold their line around the barricades, though one of them glances at the soldier with the scratch wound. He shudders. It’s like he’s never seen blood before—or anyone in distress.

I don’t stop Logan when she runs toward her sister and takes her from Grace’s grasp. Hunter offers Grace a shoulder to lean on, and I find myself on her other side. She sways and straightens herself. None of us has consciously decided to fall back, but we do. Faced with the fear and anger of the soldiers. The inevitability of Reid’s…body.

And the impenetrable gaze of the lieutenant, who now stands alone, between us and his men. He stands at ease, his hands folded behind his back, and his eyes find mine.

We look at each other.

What are you sending us back to? I wish I could ask him.

He narrows his eyes, and his shoulders drop, imperceptibly. While we help Grace and Leah away from here, while we leave Reid’s body behind, the lieutenant shakes his head.

He doesn’t turn around. He keeps staring while we retreat. Maybe he’s just following orders. Maybe he would’ve done something different if he had the choice. Maybe he’s sorry for sending us back to a correctional facility that’s been abandoned because our lives aren’t a priority in the face of a plague.

But inaction in the face of injustice is injustice all the same. And it’s the same refrain that’s stuck in my head, over and over and over again.

Why didn’t you do something to stop them? Why didn’t you do something to stop them? Why didn’t you do—

I don’t know if I’m trying to reach the lieutenant or my priest or God. It all bleeds together at some point. Authority figures you’re supposed to trust but who’ll let you down.

My court-appointed lawyer, who couldn’t—or didn’t want to—find ways to help me after I was arrested for “running away from home,” though I had actually been kicked out.

Father Michael, who I came out to in the pews of our church. When my skin felt too tight and my heart couldn’t stop racing, I needed him to tell me that we were all made perfect, created after the likeness and image of God. I wanted him to tell me it would all be okay and someone would be there for me. And instead, he told my parents.

My parents, who forced me to choose between conversion therapy, exorcism, and leaving. As long as I “chose” to be nonbinary, they said, there wasn’t a place for me under their roof. My mother prayed for me. My father turned away.

Why didn’t you do something to stop them?

Grace leans heavily on me when we make our way back to the Hope Juvenile Treatment Center. The head wound has stopped bleeding, but a bright-red bruise is spreading along the side of her face and her jaw, and she moans when we jostle her too much.

“How did we all get here?” she asks softly. I don’t know if anyone but me hears.