Darkness has set in like a black fog, held at bay by the campfire’s light. Figures sit around on milk crates or cross-legged on the ground. Some are eating fruit gathered on the day’s foray into town. Others are napping. Kids read by lantern light or play with toys.

In the darkness, a twig snaps. Shapes of men and women come out of the shadows, and spotlights flick on as chaos erupts within the encampment.

A male voice says through a bullhorn, “This is the police. You are surrounded. Stay where you are.”

Before anyone can catch up to what is going on, bodies come forward from all directions. People try to disperse and scatter. Rolling around on the ground. Hands reach; arms jerk. Punch and fight. Batons come out and thump into bodies. Screams fill the air as the night explodes in fear and anger and violence.

Anne and Cinnamon spring to their feet under the tarp where they have lain resting. Grabbing their packs.

“We gotta find Canary and the twins. But we gotta stay together.”

“I’m right behind you,” Anne tells Cinnamon.

“Keep hold of my pack,” Cinnamon replies.

Running out of the tented area, they find a battle royal combined with a WWE WrestleMania and a Lollapalooza concert. Anne’s eyes scan the madness. One hand holding on to Cinnamon’s pack, she sees Trot. He takes a fist to the face just as someone slams a lawn chair across the cop’s back. Dodging bodies. Grabbing hands. Voices screaming and shouting. They get to Trot, help him to his feet. “Where’s Canary?”

“Last she told me, she’s putting the twins down for the night.”

Snaking through the mayhem, following a path to another tented area, Canary comes, a twin attached to each hand. Sweet Tart cries on her left; Apple sniffles on her right. “What is going on?”

“It’s a fucking raid from the pigs.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We gotta get out of here,” Cinnamon says.

“Lead the way,” Canary says.

“Grab a buddy and come on.” Coming from the tent, three cops are stepping toward them with mace and batons. Anne picks up a rock. Hurls it. One of the cops lifts his forearm and deflects it. And before the cops can pursue them, everyone is reaching down, grabbing whatever they can find that is loose on the ground. Sticks, rocks, bottles, and toys start raining down on the cops, who kneel and turn away. Cinnamon yells, “Follow me.” Turns and jumps and maneuvers through blackberry brambles. “Come on, be careful. You gonna get scratched by thorns, but it’s to our advantage.”