Eventually, when it seems safe, she steps out. She leaves the gun hidden under a pile of leaves—last thing she needs to do is approach a shitload of police with an old German pistol in her hand. And hell if there aren’t a lot of police—three cruisers, two paddy-wagon vans, two animal-control vans, couple unmarkeds.

Atlanta’s first true reward: as cops lead folks into the vans, she spies Melanie’s blood-crusted face disappearing into one.

And there’s Holger. The detective’s dressed like it’s early March, even though it’s as hot and dry as the devil’s own breath out here—Holger’s got on jeans and a long-sleeve shirt and a Phillies cap pulled over her too-short haircut.

From there everything’s a blur—Atlanta feels relieved but numb. Holger sits her on the bumper of one of the unmarked cars, an old-school Crown Vic that looks like it’s seen a thousand better days and none worse than today, and it’s there she plants herself for a good hour and a half as the cops, like termites, start to chew apart and break down the wood of this criminal operation. Dogs in cages head to the animal-control van. Cops seize drugs and guns. Two state paddy wagons leave, and a third—this one from two towns over—pulls up. She sees familiar faces—Karl the Nazi, the pockmarked fucker, Charlie the ref, John Elvis—all loaded into cruisers or vans. When they see her they all look at her the same way, each offering up a cold stiletto stare that says, You did this to me.

Some cops try to take Whitey away, but before Atlanta says anything, Holger calls over that it’s okay. That’s Atlanta’s dog, she tells him. “That dog’s safe.”

Safe. That’s a good word.

Atlanta smiles.

“I guess you are my dog,” she says to Whitey.

He pants in approval of this fact.

It’s not long before they bring out the big fish. Ellis Wayman. Trudging forward, hands behind his back, big head and bigger beard bobbing with each step. He sees Atlanta and gives her a boozy, woozy smile.

“You missed out,” Wayman calls over to her. He whoops: “I broke out the good whiskey!” He offers a booming laugh.

They load him into a cruiser—which looks so difficult as to be comical, like they’re trying to shove a grizzly into a phone booth—but eventually they get him inside, and he gives Atlanta one last look through the glass. She can’t tell if the look is sad or mean or just drunk. She wonders how much whiskey it must take to light up a man like that. One bottle? Two? A claw-foot bathtub filled to its brim?