We’re wrestling more than fighting, but once they get me on the ground, they’ll remove my teeth two at a time.

“She bit me!” someone screams. “She bit my fucking ear off!”

I would probably laugh had not serious blows begun landing on my skull. My thoughts instantly evaporate into survival instinct as I cover my head and try to keep my feet.

A wallop to my right temple obliterates my sense of balance, and I drop to my knees, glimpsing the silver toe cap of a boot just before it savages my ribs. Another head blow puts me on my back, and the fists come down in a steady hail. I see white flashes of light, and my ears are roaring. You hope you black out at a time like this, but I’m not that lucky. Every fist feels like I walked into a steel pole.

Suddenly a new sound breaks through the fog in my jiggling brain. A brief, percussive pock. Again: pock-pock. At first I think it’s the sound of something hitting my skull, but no one is hitting me anymore, yet the sound goes on. Pock! Pock-pock!

Rolling onto my side, I see three men cowering against a brick wall. A large uniformed man stands over them, hammering them mercilessly with a stick.

Deputy Ike Ransom.

Ike the Spike is beating Spurling and his redneck posse like willful dogs, his baton cracking shins, shoulders, elbows, and skulls with surgical precision. The flashing lights I saw must have been the arrival of his squad car.

“Penn? Penn, can you hear me?”

It’s Caitlin. Soft hands try to pull me to my feet, but they haven’t the strength to lift my frame.

“Count to five!” she orders, her voice electrified by fear.

“Is that what they teach you at Radcliffe?” I croak, wobbling to my feet. “I’m surprised you’re not over there screaming about police brutality.”

“Screw them. They need to learn some respect for women.”

Two roughnecks have fallen facedown, but Ike shows no inclination to stop what he’s doing. Spurling makes the mistake of lunging at the deputy and screaming “nigger,” which earns him a sweeping baseball-style lick that lays him out flat on the ground.

“Ike!” I yell. “Stop it, man!”

Caitlin and I run toward him, but I’m not about to try to grab his baton. In his present state he might not be able to distinguish between white faces quickly enough to spare me a concussion. Caitlin isn’t so timid. She steps between Ike and his targets and holds up both hands, creating a sight arresting enough to paralyze the deputy. Ike lowers his baton and turns to me, his eyes filled with sweat.

“You’d best get out of here quick. Police won’t be long.”

Now isn’t the time for extended thank-yous. I take Caitlin’s arm and hobble toward the driver’s door of the BMW.