Mama goes for the door.

“Mama, no,” I say. “Not until we see they have a warrant.”

“Baby, no. This ain’t a workshop. This is real life. Look at Corinne.”

Corinne is shaking, terrified on the steps.

Mama pushes me behind her, then cinches her robe’s belt and loosens the chain lock, before cracking the door open. A flood of blue and red lights streams through the house, and then a bright light flashes in Mama’s face. She steps back and blocks it with her hand. When she does this, she’s shoved back by the sheriff, John Brighton, pushing the door open more, gun drawn. His face is stern, red-fleshed around his neck. He has the same strawberry-blond hair, like an older version of his son, Chris—shorter, but with a matching body type, more fluff than muscle. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was frightened.

We should be the ones who are afraid, not him.

“We’re here to take in Jamal Beaumont, ma’am.” He shoves a warrant in front of us.

I suck in my teeth. All my training to review the warrant slips my mind as fear snakes up my legs and freezes me from moving. I look up to Jamal’s room. Behind my shoulder, his door slowly opens to a crack. I’m reminded of his odd behavior. Jamal must’ve gotten into a fight. I look to Corinne, praying she won’t cry out for Jamal on the stairs.

With my arms folded, I finally settle my list of what I should be doing as I make eye contact with Jamal. I only see a sliver of him, but it’s like I can read his mind. That thing that siblings always have ingrained in their DNA—never rat on each other—lips sealed. The blood I saw tonight will never be mentioned. They wouldn’t wait for his side of the story.

I step in front of Mama, making sure to only keep the door ajar. Mama digs her nails into my skin accidentally. It helps me focus on staying silent. If I’m calm, Mama will be, too.

“Let me review the warrant, please.” I take the warrant from Sheriff Brighton’s hand, but I’m not fully reading it. I’m stalling.

The house creaks as Jamal scuffles around in his room. The rusty glide of his bedroom window opening sends prickles down my spine. Mostly sounds I’ve gotten used to when he comes home by curfew, only to scoot out the window to stay out later. I’m not sure if I’m thinking it, but I swear there’s another thump outside.

In my head, I imagine Jamal jumping off the roof and sprinting away. I keep my face stone-cold. Because no matter what my brother might’ve done, I’m not gonna let them take him away from us.