“Oh, shit,” says someone behind me. “No way.”

“Way,” says DeVante. “Remember Baltimore? Ferguson?”

Urgent, pounding music echoes from the television. A looming voiceover announces This is a National News Network Special Update. Breaking News.

A familiar reporter’s face comes on. The hot chick with the big lips. “Tensions are escalating tonight in Underhill, at the scene of the police-involved shooting of thirteen-year-old Shae Tatum earlier tonight. We’re receiving reports that police have deployed tear gas canisters in their efforts to maintain control of the crowd.”

The live image is blurring and jouncing at the same time. Smoke and silence come from that side of the screen. Then the live feed cuts away, and we see the scene from an angle, from a different camera, with plumes of tear gas rising up in the near distance. The slim blond man on screen has a cloth pressed to his face with one hand, and a microphone in the other. Screaming, crying, furious people run in all directions around him.

Hot chick continues, “Reporters on the ground estimate that several hundred people have gathered to protest in Underhill tonight. We’re live with the ongoing coverage. National correspondent Sean Toffee is on the scene in Underhill. Sean?”

She sorts the papers on her desk and the lapels of her tailored suit jacket widen, giving a better shot of her chest.

“Daaaaamn,” I groan. “Can we get a scroll bar with her number?”

A few guys laugh. Tom, a senior, smacks me on the back of my head. “Get a grip, dude. There’s rioting.”

I roll my eyes. Come on, can’t I think a girl is hot and still care about, like, race relations?

Wick, my next-door neighbor, says, “Leave it to Robb to try to get laid in the middle of a national crisis.”

DeVante says, “Rioting? That’s a white man’s word.”

We all look at him. Everyone in the room is white, except DeVante and two Asians. I mean, a Filipino and a … I forget. Chinese, maybe. Whatever—he grew up in Portland.

“Dude, there are people throwing shit through windows,” says Wick. “How is that not a riot?”

“Sounds like a reasoned response to militaristic policing,” DeVante answers.

I squint at him. “What the fuck are you talking about, bro?”

He throws a couch pillow at me. “I’m not your bro.”

The pillow comes hard, like a brick. I block with my forearms. Weird. He’s not the type to get worked up. DeVante’s usually pretty chill.

“Sorry,” I say. And I mean it. Maybe it feels particularly shitty to see rioting when you’re black. I don’t know.

“Wait,” Wick says. “So, you’re cool with rioting?”

DeVante sighs. “The point is, it’s more complicated.”

“Of course it is,” says one of the Asians. The Filipino.