He’s right. The gathered faces didn’t flinch when we drew our weapons. Not a good sign.

O’Donnell’s radio hums with static. “Sit rep, O’Donnell. Stable?”

O’Donnell squeezes the button at his shoulder. “That’s a negative,” he reports. “This side is hostile.”

“Status?”

“We’ve had to draw weapons.”

Brief silence. Then, “How many are you looking at?”

O’Donnell looks at me. I shrug. Glance at crowd. I’m no expert. I shrug back, hold up two fingers. Best guess.

“Can’t tell for sure. A couple hundred, easy,” O’Donnell says.

“All hostile?”

O’Donnell speaks into his radio. “They refuse to disperse,” he reports. “They’re behind the line but only for now.”

“Pull back,” comes the order over the radio. “Tactical unit coming in.”

We don’t turn our backs to the crowd. We amble, toe to heel, in reverse.

“We need masks,” O’Donnell says. “Asap.”

“Masks?” I echo.

The canisters whistle overhead, each trailing an arc of smoke. The white-gray cloud that billows up sets people choking.

The line we held firm for hours is shattered. So long, tenuous peace. The string of yellow tape bursts and drifts to the ground as people run and scream.

KIMBERLY

“Her body is still in the street?” Zeke says. “What’s it been?”

The clock reads 11:27. Six hours exactly since I looked last. Dang, I really need to get home. I have to be up to work morning hours at the salon, and then back here for a couple of hours in the late afternoon.

Even though this organizing work feels more important than cutting hair, SCORE isn’t what pays the bills.

“I really have to get home,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve gone above and beyond tonight,” Zeke says. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

I gather my purse, for real this time. “I can come back tomorrow as soon as I’m done at my job.”

He nods. “We’re going to need all hands on deck.”

The rest of the UCC is usually bustling, compared to the SCORE office. Tonight it’s past closing. Everything is quiet. The community room with all its colorful chairs, unoccupied, feels strange and ghostly. In the dim light, the carpet looks worn, the chairs well used and wonky. Amazing, how people and voices and chaos can make a space come alive.

The building is silent and yet there’s noise. Faraway noise pressing toward me from someplace beyond.

The front doors of the place are two tall wooden arches. This part of the building is historic. They’re locked. I’m never here this late. I forgot that the staff entrance is around the side.

A heavy knock comes at the wooden door. Again. It shakes in the frame.

“Hey,” says a voice. “Hey, anyone home? Help!”

My feet take me back a step, even as my arms stretch forward to open the door. Pause. “Who’s there?”