“This Rico. Yvonne? Open up!”

There is a big brass key sticking out of the right-hand door. My fingers start to grasp it when there’s a sound like glass shattering.

“Shit. Help! Open up!” The voice grows more urgent.

My fingers are on the key ready to turn, but I’m scared now. “Come to the side door,” I say. “I can open that one.” The staff entrance is a glass door. I want to know exactly what is on the other side before I make a mistake.

On the other side of the glass, people are running, shouting, frantic. The strobe of police lights echo against the bricks.

A light-skinned man with a scraggly beard lurches around the corner, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Rico?”

“Where’s Yvonne?” He’s holding his hand to his head. Blood seeps between his fingers.

“Come in,” I say. Maybe I’m not supposed to, but there’s an instinct when someone is bleeding in front of you. Rico staggers forward. I settle him at the social services intake desk, which is the closest thing. “Wait here.”

The clinic is on the back side of the building. We share a wall and a door, but it’s locked.

Zeke startles when I burst back into the office. “Oh, you scared me. I thought you left.”

“It’s—go look. It’s loud out there.”

“Whoa.” Zeke moves up beside me. His hands wrap warm and firm around my arms, just above the elbow. He’s touching me. “Everything okay?”

“Yes—” That’s the automatic answer. His thoughtful frown pulls the truth out of me. His hands on my arms make me safe to say it. “Actually, no. I don’t think everything is okay.”

TINA

It is hard to sleep

the world sounds like broken bottles

smells like gasoline and fire

looks like police in boots and helmets

it is bad enough to hear all the sounds

without the crying smoke

Mommy comes into my room

into my bed and holds me

she teaches me the names for things

which helps

riot gear tear gas Molotov cocktail

we have plenty of reasons to cry tonight

other than tear gas

which really doesn’t help anything at all

ROBB

After midnight, and it’s still totally lit in Underhill. A bunch of guys from my floor are clustered into the lounge watching the coverage. Basically everyone, except Tyrell, the math-headed recluse. How’s this for math? If everyone else is doing something maybe you should be doing it too.

The footage right now is a split screen, between a distinguished-looking news anchorman, and Peach Street in Underhill. The street is crowded with people chanting, surging toward a growing wall of police with riot gear. The camera angle juggles and adjusts from time to time. It must be a handheld, and they’re walking around trying to cover what’s happening.

The live footage turns cloudy with smoke.