With every delay, it’s another second for Jamal to escape. I will him to get to the river trail and up through the hills, running the route he takes every day to train during track season. He knows every nook and cranny in the dark because we’ve played hide-and-seek in the woods for years, and my brother is a master at it. I pray the sheriff doesn’t have tracking dogs and Jamal can cut through the woods to the other side of the highway and catch a bus.

“It’s late, Sheriff,” Mama says behind me. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Get your boy.” Sheriff Brighton’s voice has the same sharp bite to it as his son’s.

Behind the sheriff, a squadful of cars are parked outside our house. Some cops are posted by the cars, others putting protective gear on.

“What the hell,” I whisper under my breath.

Mama’s back is as rigid as a board as Corinne joins us in the entryway. I don’t know what to do, because the warrant looks legit. I want to run to Corinne, to be by her side and block them from Jamal, but I know it won’t make a difference. Corinne’s weight pulls on me. I know it’s more important to keep her away. Keep her safe.

“I said, get your boy,” the sheriff says.

A few more officers draw in closer to the door, like they’re about to rush our entryway.

“Almost done,” I say. “It’s our right to verify a warrant.”

I wonder what it’s like to be someone who’d feel safe in their presence. I try to trick my mind, pretend we called them. It helps me settle more, and I give Mama a squeeze, hoping I can do the same for her. But it doesn’t last long, because the word boy keeps running in my head. A bitter taste flushes in my mouth, the way that word drawls out like just another slur in coded language.

The officers, guns drawn, spread to each entrance of the house.

Mama’s struck with fear, with grief, and it’s like she gave them permission from that moment and it didn’t matter I was planning on reading this warrant over a thousand times. Mama removes the chain lock and opens the door wider. They flood past us, scattering through the house and up the stairs before she can say she’ll bring Jamal down.

As they make their way upstairs, I pray that God led Jamal into the woods and he is doing what he knows best, using his God-given legs to run.

RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT

Mama wraps her arms around us as they search our home. Sheriff Brighton stays back, making sure we don’t touch anything.

“Where is he?” the sheriff asks.

“I have no idea,” Mama says. “I’d be able to help if I knew why you’re here.”