Theo sat quietly as his captors drove south down Highway 85. The handcuffs were wound tight, but at least they’d been nice enough to re-cuff him with his hands in front of him when they stopped for gas. Even the slightest movement of his wrists was excruciating. He’d never experienced such unceasing pain. But he’d rather feel that than the numbing panic that was slowly overtaking him as the car drove deeper into Clayton County, south of Atlanta. Pain was localized, but panic was all-encompassing, engulfing. Familiar parking lots and stores and restaurants were already transforming into places where he could concretely envision his death and nothing else, future crime scenes.

Theo only knew three addresses in Clayton County: Kai’s home address, Sol’s grandmother’s address, and Independence Park, the site of his lessons with Coach Anna. He’d given the agents the park address, and in mere minutes, they’d realize it. He shuddered at the thought of how they’d react, the sudden movement further irritating his wrists. That gun-toting maniac in the driver’s seat couldn’t have been bluffing, he thought. If regular citizens could take black life with impunity, and cops could take it with legal sanction and impunity on video, FBI agents could probably slit his throat on live television: impunity, legal sanction, video, and shareholder approval. The holy tetrad.

He’d almost laughed when Tilly Erickson, who he recognized from the news, had mentioned a drone strike. Atlanta wasn’t Afghanistan, for chrissakes. But still, even that seemed plausible. He’d have to ask Apollo about drones if he ever talked to him again. He used to watch drone strike videos online all the time; he’d probably know what they were all about. If he isn’t dead, he reminded himself. His newfound fatalism was already settling into every thought.

“You lying-ass kid!” Rick shouted as they pulled into Independence Park, parking the vehicle but letting the engine idle. Theo stared ahead, rigid with fear. His favorite Future song played from the speakers. The surrealness of the moment made Theo reflect on the car ride.

Once they’d left his house, after a stretch of angry, reckless driving, Rick had suddenly started chatting with Theo, praising his secret Tumblr, which Theo thought no one knew about, and asking him about West Coast rap. All the while, scattered Atlanta rap had been playing, ranging from deep cuts from Gangsta Grillz mixtapes to Mike-Will-made radio fodder. Theo wasn’t sure whether the guy was in too deep, using advanced interrogation techniques, or spiting Tilly Erickson, who remained silent throughout and seemed to flinch anytime they got too animated. Theo couldn’t see her face, but she seemed irritated, her posture too stiff to be normal.

Familiar sounds began to pierce through Future’s revelry: clicks, swooshes, beeps, eeps, flutters. Someone was going through his phone. How’d they even have his password?