Wynezra, Holden, Imogen, and I were still taken to the Juvenile Temporary Detention Center in Chicago. Technically, it was a guilty-until-proven-innocent situation. However, the nature of the arrest had softened significantly. Officer Brolin looked only slightly disappointed that his terrorist arrest was most likely a sham. Offisaurus rex—whose name was Winston—even apologized to Imogen for pulverizing her into the earth’s mantle. As a token of peace, he offered her a pink frosted donut with sprinkles.

Since it was the middle of the night, we were placed in individual holding cells—narrow things with brown brick walls; cold, sandy-speckled floors; a bed that more closely resembled a cot; and a silver sink-toilet combo. (I so wish I was kidding.) In my cell, however, someone had painted the narrow back wall into a pure and simple work of art. It was blue, with a hopeful-looking white bird standing off to one side, and words:

DON’T LET WHAT

YOU CANNOT DO

INTERFERE WITH

WHAT YOU CAN DO.

I read those words over and over again until I fell asleep.

I was pretty sure I fell asleep smiling.

It was still dark out when we were released. Probably only an hour or so later. Wynezra, Holden, Imogen, and I were shepherded out of our cells, down an earth-colored hallway, out into the lobby.

Where Roscoe was waiting for us.

We all stopped walking, like we had suddenly run out of floor. Looked at Wynezra.

She just looked sick.

Roscoe seemed to notice this. He cleared his throat nervously.

“I’ve already talked to your parents,” he said. “Or… we have. The police and I. I’ve agreed to take everyone home since I was, um… in the area.”

I assumed “in the area” meant rehab.

“Fortunately, there aren’t any charges against you four,” Roscoe continued, “so there was no bail, although, Ezra, um… your car was impounded, so that’s something you’ll have to take care of.”

I sighed and nodded my head acceptingly.

Then I realized I was Wynonna.

Then I realized I really didn’t give a fuck.

Roscoe noticed this, too. If he thought anything of it, he kept it to himself.

“Anyway,” he said, “I already filled out all the paperwork to get you guys out, so… you’re free to go, ya hoodlums!”

I think that last part was meant to make us laugh. Or to at least break the tension. It didn’t really do either.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” said Imogen, politely. “Holden and I are going to go outside for a breath of fresh air.”

“We are?” said Holden.

“Yes, Holden. We are.”

“Oh. Right. Of course, we are. Obviously.”

He gave Wynezra and me the most unsubtle wink he was capable of, then sauntered outside. Imogen shook her head, perplexed, and followed after him.

It was just Roscoe, Wynezra, and me.

“So…” said Roscoe. “That’s Holden, huh? I like him.”