The ink on my fingers feels soft as my skin after a while. Not sticky, not leaving any kind of mark on the wooden bench. My thumbs stroke circles over my finger pads until the sensation all but disappears.

My mind drifts. I think about history. About Birmingham, and courage, and what it means to win. I think about missing class on Monday, and if they’ll ever let me back. If anyone will know I’m here and come for me. My mother’s disappointment and my father’s glaring I-told-you-so. The life cycle of a black man in America—birth, struggle, prison, struggle, death.

I wanted to be different. I wanted my life to matter. I wanted to do a different kind of math—never tick marks on a wall counting down the days. There is an ocean in me.

Can’t help but wonder how Tariq would feel about what I’ve done. What he would say to me now. Can he hear my whispered prayer? Is he listening? Is anyone? I don’t know what I believe anymore. Don’t know what to make of a world without justice, of a God who turns our best intentions into the dark.

The shit of it is, I know what Tariq would have said. He woulda got me on the phone straight off. Ty, don’t even think about coming home for this mess. You got out of Underhill. Stay out. I got you.

My eyes sting for knowing it. Sting, for not listening in the first place. Sting, for the loneliness of this ice-cold wall and the bars I can’t bear to look at, let alone touch.

In all this world, the one person I could ever count on is long gone. For a minute there, I thought I was going to survive it. I thought I was strong enough to survive the world without him.

Tariq, I tried.

I tried to stand up. They shoved me back down.

Are you ashamed of me?

ROBB

“Dad, we can’t leave without Tyrell and DeVante.” He can afford to bail us all out. It’s the least we can do. I mean, Dad’s here now. He must have chartered a flight in order to pick me up from the holding cell personally.

“I’ve already made inquiries,” he says. “Tyrell is remanded.”

I’m confused. “They’re keeping him in custody? No, we have to try again.”

“He’s being charged with assaulting a police officer.”

“What?” Confusion fades and something achy takes its place. “He didn’t assault anyone.”

I rush over to the nearest counter, where a uniformed officer sits. “You’ve made a mistake. Tyrell is innocent.”

The desk officer smirks. “Tell it to the judge.”

Dad grips my shoulders and bustles me outside. “Don’t meddle in someone else’s business.”