And from there it goes in the same circle it did when we started. Consequences versus empathy. I don’t even know if they’re actually opposites, and I don’t see a clear path forward.

Did the judges who sentenced us ever feel the same way? Did they look at us and wonder why we did what we did? What could’ve been done to prevent it or to help us? Or did they want vengeance too? Not personally, like Mac and Riley, but revenge for the fact that we broke their sense of normal and acceptable. That we broke whatever social contract they thought we had.

If I’d known all of this would happen when I pulled Ian off that girl—perhaps the easier route would have been to simply let him assault her. That can’t have been what they had in mind either.

I massage my temples. The dull, throbbing headache that’s settled behind my eyes refuses to dissipate, and the conversations around me are still going. Everyone has an opinion, an ideal solution, an argument or five.

How am I supposed to make a decision? How am I supposed to decide what is right, when I’m torn between anger over seeing people hurt, fear that none of what we do will be enough—and the understanding that I would have done the same for Casey? For Sofia. For all of them.

Fuck, I would do the same for all of them. But I don’t know how to make this decision on my own.

I clear my throat. “We’re not going to solve this tonight.”

The words are immediately followed by a barrage of protests. “We can’t ignore what happened!”

“We have a solution!”

“We need to be able to talk about it.”

I sigh and raise my hand until the silence settles.

One by one, they all focus on me, and I feel the weight of it in my bones.

“We’ll vote on it tomorrow. Emerson should get a say too, and Casey, and everyone else not present here. We either do this together or not at all.” Maybe that will help us figure out the right path.

The words are met with grumbling. Mackenzi and Riley share a look, and I can all but see the bloodlust between them. The anger too and the desperation.

I hesitate. “Khalil? Can you keep an eye on Josie until then? From a distance, of course, but to make sure she doesn’t do anything foolish.”

And to make sure we don’t either.

Twenty-one

Emerson

I broke my wrist once before. I was ten, and I went skateboarding with my best friend, Diana. It was a Saturday morning, and the streets in our upper-middle-class neighborhood were empty of cars, so we had the whole block to ourselves. Between the smell of baking drifting up from her house and the sensation of our wheels on the road, it felt like freedom. Neither of us could skateboard very well. We couldn’t do the same tricks Diana showed me online, and I wobbled and balanced and overstretched continuously. We made our way down the streets, picking up the pace and egging each other on, and it felt like flying. Me on my pink board with purple wheels, and Diana on a beat-up, black-and-green one.