Dad shrugs. “There are good people in the public defender’s office. This is what they’re there for.”

I grab his arm. “No, seriously, he needs a good lawyer. The best. I—I feel responsible.” I am responsible. “I mean, I was the one who wanted to go to the demonstration.”

“I’m proud of you for standing up,” Dad says. “Though, I wish you could find a way to do it peacefully.”

Peace is for shit. Is what I want to say. What is the penalty for beating an unarmed woman? Wouldn’t anyone have done what I did, seeing that?

“You’ve seen the footage,” I remind him. “The cops are the problem.”

Dad shakes his head. He steps off the curb at his parking space. “They’re doing their jobs.”

“Tell that to Shae Tatum.”

Dad glares at me over the roof of the car. “Not what I meant.”

But isn’t that the heart of it, still? I glance back at the police department building. The flow of people in and out is constant, frenzied.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Get in the car,” Dad says. “We’re going back home.”

Home, maybe. Back, not so much. There’s no going back.

I’m not outside of it anymore. I can’t pretend I’m innocent. That white privilege doesn’t affect me, or that I haven’t done anything to make any of it worse. I’m part of the problem. All the things I didn’t understand made me part of the problem. I will always be part of the problem.

MELODY

Blinking light. Beeping sounds. A mechanical hum. Squeaking, from somewhere. Voices that sound like whispers, but not.

Ow.

Pain. Vibrating through me. My chest, my arm. My shoulder is on fire.

That miserable moaning sound … oh, that’s me.

“Shh. Hang on. Shhh.” Brick is here. “Nurse! We need a nurse in here!”

I suck my tongue, trying to get life back in it. “Brick?”

He’s at my side. “Hey, there.” His hand comes up, strokes my face.

“What are you doing here?” I’m in the hospital. I can tell now. I can feel the thin sheets under my heels. I grip the bed bars with the hand that can move. It’s cool. Brick’s fingers close over mine. They’re warm.

“How come you don’t have proper emergency contacts listed in your phone?” he asks. “They said they called me because I was the last number you dialed.”

“You’re good enough,” I assure him. “You came.” That means something. To rush to someone’s bedside. It means something.

Ow. Breathe.

“Nurse!” Brick shouts. “Someone get in here!”

“I lost you in the crowd,” I murmur. That’s what comes back first, the moment when our hands slipped apart.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what happened. You were there and then you weren’t.” He strokes my cheek. “You’re so damn tiny.”

“I’m tougher than I look.”

“At least you weren’t arrested,” he tells me. Arrested?

The night, the march, the melee. It all comes rushing back. The baton. Falling down. Someone knocking the cop off me. Who?