“Every man has troubles his children don’t understand,” the big man replies. “Not until they’re older. That’s how perspective works. For us adults, perspective is both a luxury and a curse.”

Bite your tongue, she says to herself. And she does. She literally bites it hard enough where she thinks, Just a little more pressure and I can bite clean through. She tastes that coppery tang of blood.

The words, though, don’t care for the taste of blood or the blockade of teeth.

Because they squeeze and squirm past like eager little ants in search of food.

“Troubles,” she says. “Like Jews. Or blacks. Or let me guess—wetbacks, faggots, Chinks.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Those words don’t sound very nice coming from a young girl’s mouth. Don’t confuse me with my son’s friends. Like I said, children and adults have different concerns, different perspectives.” He fidgets with the ring.

“That’s a big ring,” she says.

“It was my father’s. It signified membership.” Way he turns it and strokes it, letting light play across the ruby facets, she can tell it means a lot to him.

“All this wall decor signify membership, too?” she asks.

“Just symbols of one man’s belief.”

“And that one man’s belief is that the white man is supreme. That about right?”

He straightens up, massive shoulders tensing, looking like logs rolling just beneath the surface of water. “A man can have pride in who he is. No harm in that.”

“White power.”

“White pride. Nobody begrudges black pride. Nobody says boo to feminists. And so why balk at pride in being white? One would assume that satisfaction with one’s heritage and history is a good thing. As we say at work, it’s a feature, not a bug.”

“Being proud of being white is like being proud of being not-crippled.”

“So those who aren’t white are cripples?”

“What? No, I didn’t—”

“Your words, not mine.”

“But that’s not what I meant.” She feels frustrated. Cornered. “You know what? Fuck you.”

“That how you talk to adults? Guess I don’t blame you. After what happened to you.” He relaxes again. The tension settles—he takes it off himself and gives it to her. A sharing of energy. Bad energy. He studies her face, must see it in her eyes. “So it’s true, then. What you did. To your stepfather.”

It’s her turn to tense up. She shouldn’t be surprised that this is where the conversation’s heading, but even still, she’s having trouble finding the words.

Again, the man in the corner—the cop—is smiling. Finally, she says in a voice smaller than she likes, “He wasn’t my stepfather.”

“Wasn’t he?”

“Just a boyfriend. Of my mother’s.”

“She have lots of boyfriends?”

Atlanta says nothing.