Kwame gets up on the edge of the fountain’s rock wall. “We’re gathered tonight in memory of Shae Tatum. Let us begin with a ceremony of libation.”

He holds up a palm-sized pitcher of oil, pours a few drops onto the stones and a few drops into the rippling pool of the fountain. “Tonight we call forth the ancestors as we gather in their memory, particularly in the memory of those who have died due to police brutality and those who have died in the struggle for liberation and peace. Let them be remembered not only for their deaths but for their lives. In their name, we carry forward the struggle.”

“Shae Tatum,” someone begins.

“Emmett Till,” says someone else.

Then other names rise up, spoken in many voices. The soft calls burst overhead like fireworks, each carrying a whole story, a whole life.

“Martin Luther King, Jr.”

“Sandra Bland.”

“Tariq Johnson.”

“Medgar Evers.”

“Eric Garner.”

“Philando Castile.”

“Viola Liuzzo.”

“Trayvon Martin.”

“Malcolm X.”

“Bobby Hutton.”

Shivers run up my spine. There are so many names. I don’t know one to say out loud that hasn’t already been said, but other people do and the names just keep coming. I’m embarrassed that I don’t know who they all are. I promise myself I’ll remember. I promise myself I’ll look them all up.

“Michael Brown.”

“Freddie Gray.”

“Shae Tatum,” Kwame repeats, to close out the naming. We stand in silence together as the candles flicker and burn.

TYRELL

Across the quad, through the trees, the glow of the candlelight is strong. When the vigil breaks up, not everyone blows out their candles. They walk the paths, flickering like fireflies. It is hard to ignore, so I close the blinds.

I’m not the person Robb and DeVante think I am. If the other shoe drops, it’s gonna mess things up for me.

They think I’m not interested, or that I don’t care. Whatever. They can think what they want. I can take the heat.

Not everyone has to march. The fight is bigger than they know. I’m part of it, just by being here.

I win if I graduate.

STEVE CONNERS

The police aren’t making our job so easy right now. I’m supposed to weigh in on messaging, figure out how to position the police actions as positive. Difficult when everything is such “a hot mess,” as my stepson would say. I’ve never been fond of that phrase, but it makes perfect sense in this context.

“We need to streamline and clarify the official communications around the incident,” John tells the officers clustered in the conference room. Union reps and a handful of brass. “In this climate we can’t underestimate the value of perception.”

“You mean a climate in which unchecked police violence is unacceptable?” I can’t help myself.

“What Steve means is—”