Jamal helped her to stand. The ring of trailers was ablaze. The crackle of it was almost comforting, like the logs she had always hoped would burn at her house at Christmas. Blank-eyed boys had poured into the night, hunching their naked shoulders. They looked sullen and humiliated—caught out—and terrified to within an inch of their sanity. They all looked so young. Something was raining down from the sky that Clark at first mistook for leaves until one landed at her feet and she saw that it was a singed Polaroid, the naked boy in its frame staring back at her with much the same expression as these shivering young men.

With Joel’s good arm over her shoulder, Clark and Jamal made their way into the circle away from the flames. The little sea of boys parted and she saw Mitchell Malacek, his hands on his head, stepping toward her in the orange firelight. When he reached the dead center of the circle he stopped, a few yards from Clark, and sank to his knees and studied her feet.

Bethany Tanner, naked but for a bra and panties, strode behind Mitchell with a rifle braced against her hip. Clark recalled the two rifle cracks she had heard earlier—“Don’t worry, that’s just Bethany”—and fought the urge to smile at this girl’s dedication.

Whiskey Brazos joined Bethany from the blue trailer and rubbed at a swollen lip. Clark saw with some relief he still held Mr. Boone’s custom Glock.

Clark forced her bruised throat to swallow. She allowed herself to breathe.

Four fast pops tore through the crackling fire. Semiautomatic fast.

“Everyone on the fucking ground!”

Clark turned in time to see Garrett Mason, his pads and his Bison helmet covered in soot, step from the burning green trailer, the AR-15 braced against his shoulder.

“That means you, Officer.”

Clark tried to ease Joel gently to the ground—oh Christ, think, Star, think—but gave up when Garrett sent a bullet whistling over her head. She dropped Joel in a heap and threw herself down beside him. Jamal, stretched out on her other side, whispered, “Piece of shit,” into the dirt.

The Bright Lands boys fell on their faces without a second’s hesitation.

Bethany Tanner hadn’t moved fast enough: her rifle was still frozen, aimed at the back of Mitchell’s head. Clark prayed the girl wouldn’t try to be a hero.

Bethany clearly considered it, but when Garrett turned the AR-15 in her direction she settled for giving the boy a long, baleful scowl. She tossed the rifle into the dirt. When the gun landed, Clark felt the strangest ripple pass through the earth and reverberate in her fingers, like the rifle had landed on the tight skin of a hollow drum.

“You too, Brazos,” Garrett said, and Whiskey threw the custom Glock down by Bethany’s rifle. Garrett growled. His voice was growing deeper. Older. “I see what you got tucked in your belt.”

Whiskey sighed. He withdrew a matching Glock from the back of his jeans and tossed it into the dirt with its mate.