I leap about a mile. Zeke’s right there, on the other side of the desk. Even not reading the article had pulled my attention all the way into my phone, apparently.

“Oh, hey.” My smile feels dramatically extra-glossed. Did I overdo it? Are my lips shining like a mirror right now? God. I fumble for the edge of the file folder. “I was just about to take off.”

“You might want to wait a few minutes,” he says. “There are cops all over Peach Street. Looks like a big raid or something.”

When I leave, I won’t be going toward Peach. The hair salon where I work is down that way, but my apartment is a few blocks in the other direction. I guess Zeke doesn’t know that. Or … did he just invite me to stay? Does he want me to?

My tongue darts out over my lip. Comes back coated in gloss. Ugh. Sticky. “Um—” I scrape my teeth against the gunk. “Sure, that’s a good idea.”

Zeke isn’t really paying attention to me.

I plop my purse back on the desk for the dozenth time. If it was animate, it would be pissed at me for jerking it around. “They’ve been out in force lately, haven’t they?”

“Our community actions are making them nervous.” Zeke smiles. He has a great smile. Not too glossy or anything. “Everything we do in the neighborhood to empower people, to create awareness, is frightening them. They want to keep us in check.”

I lean on the edge of my desk. No, that probably makes my hips look too wide. “They’re succeeding, aren’t they?” It’s an honest question.

Zeke looks at the desk. “Yeah.”

There’s not much to say after that. Except something about how we’re going to change things, right from here. Together.

But that would sound too corny.

Our room is in the heart of the community center. It doesn’t have any windows. “I guess I should get home,” I tell him. It’s pizza night with my roommate. “How long until it passes, do you think?”

The phone starts ringing off the hook.

MELODY

Police lights and caution tape? That’s straight-up black-person repellent. People avoid that certain block on Peach Street while the cops close in. Ain’t nobody want a piece of that mess. At first.

Then word gets out. What’s really going down.

A child, dead. A girl.

Then the truth gets floated: officer-involved shooting.

Reporters pop up at the corners.

Then her name gets out: Shae Tatum.

What? They wrong. They gotta be. I would have kept walking, if I didn’t hear someone say it. ’Cause that can’t be right. Can’t be.

Shae wouldn’t be out alone at night. Ever. This couldn’t happen.