Two black men pass a white man in front of the hardware store. Their eyes ask, Was it you, with the torches?

His eyes say, You’ll never really know.

WITNESS

It is not enough to watch the coverage. Pacing the living room carpet, you are stuck in the middle. Too close and yet too far.

What you’ve seen surges to the forefront, again and again.

The past is not past. The future is cast in shadow. The present—this moment, now—bears its own kind of peril.

You wade through the helplessness of all you know and all you cannot say.

STEVE CONNERS

“Will’s out again,” my wife says. She stands at the kitchen window of our condo, looking down at the street. From my spot at the kitchen table, my view is the twists in her hair, the curves of her back, the hasty bow on her apron. Chicken sizzles on the stovetop. The rice lid pops and clatters as it simmers in the background. Greens in a bowl wait to get tossed in the chicken grease.

“He’s supposed to be home for dinner,” I remind her. “We’ve talked about this.”

“He won’t be,” she says. “He’s out there. I can feel it.”

Sigh. Far be it from me to question mother’s intuition. “He’s angry. You—I mean, I can’t blame him for that.”

“I don’t—I can’t rest—” She clutches at her chest and fumbles over the words. I get up, to go to her.

My cell vibrates, gliding across the kitchen tabletop. The screen glows, JOHN LANSBURY. Impeccable timing, as ever.

“Hi, John?”

My wife turns back to the window. I go over and put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs away from me, returning to tend the chicken.

“You watching the news?” John asks.

“Not yet. We’re making dinner.” My wife shoots me a glance. Okay, “we” is a stretch. I chopped the greens. And since then I’ve been sitting here. I shrug an apology at her. She sticks her tongue out.

“They’re pushing toward a verdict,” John says. “Tomorrow or the next day.”

“The grand jury?”

My wife stops stirring and turns. I look away, because I have to.

“Yes,” he says. “We’ll need to be ready when they come back. Whichever way it goes.”

“We will be.” And now it’s me at the window, staring down into the dusk. The chicken smell, rich and amazing, wafts up stronger behind me. She’s taking it off the pan, putting in the greens. Dinner soon, and Will’s not home.

John is on a roll. “We need talking points, press releases, and a revised media plan for the commissioner and the union reps. Henderson should continue in silence, don’t you think?”

“Of course. It helps nothing to hear from him.” This conversation is pointless. All of this could wait until tomorrow. I’ve already worked up the talking points. I don’t know why he even called.