“Wrong. There’s me.”

“You don’t know me at all.”

“I know I was off the clock an hour ago,” Hugh said.

“So go.”

“I’d rather stay here. Because your life, it’s important,” Hugh said. “I can’t pretend that I know what’s going on with you, Alex. And I won’t disrespect you by claiming I do. But I do know that my own shittiest days were usually followed by better days.”

“Well, tomorrow, I’m not gonna be any less gay. It took me fifteen years to figure it out and another two to get the nerve to tell my parents.” Alex picked at a thread on his jeans. “They threw me out of the house.”

“If you need a place to stay, I can help you figure that out. If you need someone to talk to, we’ll get you someone to talk to.”

Alex looked into his lap. “I wish my dad was like you,” he said softly.

“That’s nice of you to say,” Hugh replied. “Especially since my dad was the biggest asshole on this planet.”

The kid’s head snapped up. “What did he do to you?”

“I’m not real comfortable talking about it … but I think you’d get it. I’ll just say that no kid deserves to be hit all the time. And no parent should be drunk all the time.”

“How did you … do you still talk to him?”

“Nope,” Hugh said. “Once I told people what was going on, they were willing to help me. I took their good advice, and their support.” He looked at Alex. “The world turned out to be a whole lot bigger than my dad.”

For the first time in over two hours, Hugh reached out his hand. Alex looked down at it, and then grabbed on. Hugh pulled the kid away from the edge, and into his embrace.

It wasn’t until a week later that Chief Monroe called Hugh into his office and said he was recommending him as a candidate for hostage negotiation school. “You’re a natural,” he said. “What you did on the roof with that kid …” He gestured at the transcript from Hugh’s digital recorder, the conversation between him and Alex. As Hugh started to leave, the chief’s voice called him back. “I didn’t know about your dad. I’m sorry.”

Hugh paused in the doorway. “My dad was the greatest guy. He never touched a drop of alcohol in his life, Chief.” He inclined his head. “I was just selling hope.”

—

BETH WATCHED THE STRANGER WHO was supposedly going to be able to keep her out of jail. And based on what had just happened in front of the judge, it didn’t look promising.

The woman was short, maybe five-three, African American. She had her hair chemically straightened or maybe it was a weave; Beth couldn’t tell. She was wearing a navy suit that didn’t flatter her curves. And she was still about five feet away from the bed. Beth didn’t know if this was supposed to be for the lawyer’s safety, or her own.

The stenographer packed up her machine and left with the security guards. The male lawyer—the one who wasn’t on her side—sauntered up to Beth’s public defender. “Always a pleasure, Mandy.”

“For you, maybe.”

He laughed. “See you in court.”

The door hadn’t closed behind him before Miz DuVille turned to the cop who was stationed in her room, like some kind of creepy-ass stalker. He didn’t even leave when the nurses came in to check her down there. “Nathan,” her lawyer said, “I must talk to my client.”

“Nope.”

“It’ll take two minutes, tops.”

“What word didn’t you understand?”

“You can stay here. I’ll whisper into her ear so you can’t hear me.”

“N,” the cop spelled out, “O.”

She took a step closer, refusing to give an inch. “If you do not allow me a private conversation with my client I will tell everyone at the station that you shit your pants during your fitness test run because you had bad Chinese for lunch.”

“You would not—”

She folded her arms.

He frowned. “If you tell anyone that I’m stepping outside to let you do this, you will never get the cooperation of a single person in my department.”

“Cross my heart,” the lawyer said, and with a swear, the policeman left them alone.

“Nathan’s my cousin,” the public defender explained, and she grinned.

“Miz DuVille—”

“Mandy.” She walked to the side of the bed. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything that led up to this point. But first, you must have some questions.”

Some questions? She had dozens. Why were they treating her like a criminal? Was she really going to have to go to prison? What would her dad say, when he found out?

How long did she have to stay in the hospital? What would happen if she tried to leave? Where would she even go?

Instead, she looked at Mandy and said, “Is God going to have mercy on me?”

The lawyer blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“What the judge said. Do you think God will have mercy on me?”

“I’d be more worried about whether Judge Pinot will,” Mandy said. “We call him the Pinot-lizer, because he has a fondness for maximum sentences. He’s not exactly a great justice to draw. You’re a minor, but you can be tried as an adult.” She sighed. “Look, I’m not going to lie. The odds are not in your favor. You ordered pills illegally on the Internet, and medical termination of pregnancy is something that can only be done with a doctor’s supervision. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We live in a state that considers an embryo a person, for purposes of a homicide statute. That means if you intentionally cause the death of a fetus growing inside you, you could be prosecuted in Mississippi for murder.”

Beth shrank back against the pillows. She closed her eyes, seeing the white tile of the bathroom floor and the blood smeared across it.

“You may not have known you were doing something wrong, but that’s not how the law sees it.”

“I don’t get it,” Beth murmured. “I thought abortion was legal.”

The lawyer took out a pad and pen. “Why don’t we start at the very beginning?”

Beth nodded, and suddenly she was back at Runyon’s, the market where she worked as a checkout girl. It was a tiny grocery, not a chain, the kind that sold slices of homemade pie right at the register. It was an ordinary shift, meaning that the patrons were old white ladies with hairnets on and their young black companions pushed the cart. Tessie, how much are those green beans? Beth would hear, and then, Well, Miss Ann, I think they are on sale. The bagger at her station was a Black man named Rule, and when Mr. Runyon came around and pinched Beth on her ass Rule would duck his head so he didn’t see. You didn’t have to go any further than the market to realize that America had not changed much in hundreds of years.

Every day at Runyon’s was the same, which was why, when the stranger entered, it felt like a lightning bolt. He was at least six feet tall, wearing a blazer—even in the infernal heat—with his button-down oxford shirt. He walked right up to her counter, holding a six-pack of beer. “Well, hello,” he said, looking at her name tag. “Beth.”

His accent rose and fell like birds with their wings clipped. “I’m going to need to see your ID,” she said.

“I’m flattered. But I could also just tell you my name, if you want to know.”

He had a smile that was a torch. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here,” Beth said.

“U of Wisconsin. We’re here for a track meet.” He smiled. “You go to the college?”

Beth was seventeen. She wasn’t at Ole Miss. She didn’t even know if she’d go to college. But she nodded.

“Then maybe you’ll come cheer me on.” He picked up a wedge of pie wrapped in plastic and frowned. “Buttermilk pie? That sounds terrible.”

“Actually, it’s sweet.”

“Not as sweet as you.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “Does that line actually work in Wisconsin?” she said. “I’m still going to need your ID.”

He fished in his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a license. Beth scanned the birth date and then the name. “John Smith,” she said dryly.

“Blame my parents.” He winked at her, took his beer and his pie, and then turned back just before he walked out of the market. “You should come to the meet.”

And then he was gone, and with him, all the air in the market.