If they think they can wait us out, they’re wrong. It is cold, and getting dark, but we are still here, all the hundreds of us.

We’re down to the last few UNARMED buttons. I’ve been punching them out for days and days. We had hundreds, and still there never seems to be enough. It’s great, in terms of turnout. It’s hard, in terms of impact. The buttons aren’t only a political statement. They might actually save people’s lives.

That really was the last of them, though. None of the boxes at the base of the podium have more. There are a few more boxes on the other side of the steps. I trace the edge of the barricade, headed in search of them.

Behind me, Zeke’s voice breaks out through the microphone. We’ve had speeches and chanting on and off through the afternoon, to keep the momentum going.

“If they’re gonna make us wait, they’re gonna have to listen,” he shouts. “No justice, no peace!”

The crowd is primed and ready. A chorus. No justice, no peace!

I whirl around. NO. We agreed, no.

No justice, no peace!

Zeke stands on the steps like a rock star—arms out, palms up, pumping them like wings. Louder. Louder!

No justice, no peace!

No justice, no peace!

It goes on. And on. And on, and on, and on. Long enough for the people to have a hold of the rhythm on their own. Long enough for Zeke to notice me hovering on the steps, steeped in disappointment. He steps away from the mike and comes toward me.

No justice, no peace!

No justice, no peace!

“What are you doing?” I demand. “We talked about this.”

He pulls back an inch, surprised by my fire. “I know,” he says, reaching toward me. “But—”

His hands touch air. I’m not within reach anymore. I didn’t plan to back away. But here we are.

Zeke comes closer again. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I’m so full of other things, I don’t have room to hold it. “Whatever. Do what you want,” I say. “You always do.”

Zeke pauses. Looks at me, really looks. “This isn’t the time, or the place.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” I hate myself for bringing it up. I’m good at keeping a lot inside, but I’ve lost that skill with Zeke. And that was supposed to be a good thing. Now, I don’t know. I don’t know.

The stone steps feel long and high as I try to descend, away from him.

Zeke takes my arm, turns me back. “The chant was Sloan’s idea. He asked for it. How am I supposed to say no?”

No one says no to the Reverend Alabaster Sloan.

“Zeke!” One of our teen volunteers, Lemanuel, bounds across the steps toward us. “The senator’s asking for you.”

“Okay.” Zeke tosses me an apologetic glance, then follows Lemanuel back toward the microphone.

Just like that. The senator calls and he goes running. No regard for the fact that we are in the middle of something.