I cut in line, which I knew would piss off the guy I cut. We had the necessary scuffle, and I gave him a bloody nose, and then he shut up and let me take his place. When I sat down in front of the tattoo artist, he looked at me. “What’s it going to be?”

Francis and I had been working for six months now to convince squads to stop flaunting sun-wheel tattoos and shaved heads and suspenders and to start looking like ordinary Joes. Part of that meant wearing long sleeves or getting acid treatments to cover up the ink on our faces. But today was a special day. Today, I wanted everyone to know what I stood for.

When I left that tent, there were eight Gothic letters, one inked on each of my finger knuckles. On the right hand, when I made a fist, it read H-A-T-E. On the left, the side closest to my heart, was L-O-V-E.

At sunset, it was time. In the distance was the throaty roar of motorcycles, and everyone who was still at the festival formed two lines. I waited, my hands clasped in front of me, the skin still red and swollen from the new tats.

Then suddenly, the crowd parted, and I could see Brit, backlit in the oranges and yellows of the end of day. She wore a white lace dress that made her look like a cupcake, and her Doc Martens. I started smiling. I smiled so hard that I thought my jaw would crack.

When she was close enough to touch, I tucked her arm into mine. If the world had ended at that moment, I would have been okay with it. We started to walk down the makeshift aisle. As we passed, arms flew up, everyone Sieg Heiling. At the end of the line stood Francis. He smiled at us, his eyes bright and sharp. He had presided over dozens of Aryan weddings, but this one was different. “Ladybug,” he said, husky. “Aren’t you something?” Then he turned to me. “You fuck with her and I will kill you.”

“Yes, sir,” I managed.

“Brittany,” Francis began, “do you promise to obey Turk and continue the heritage of the White race?”

“I do,” she vowed.

“And Turk, will you honor this woman in war as your Aryan bride?”

“I will,” I said.

We turned toward each other. I looked her in the eye, unwavering, as we recited the Fourteen Words, the mantra David Lane created when he was running the Order: We must secure the existence of our people and a future for White children.

I kissed Brit, while behind us, someone lit a wooden swastika to brand this moment. I swear I felt a shift in me that day. Like I really had handed over half my heart to this woman, and she had given me hers, and the only way we would both continue to survive was with this patchwork.

I was dimly aware of Francis speaking, of people clapping. But I was pulled toward Brit, like we were the last two people on earth.

We might as well have been.

“MY CLIENT HATES ME,” I tell Micah, as we are standing in the kitchen washing dishes.

“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.”

I glance at him. “She thinks I’m a racist.”

“She has a point,” Micah says mildly, and I turn to him, my eyebrows shooting up to my hairline. “You’re white and she’s not, and you both happen to live in a world where white people have all the power.”

“I’m not saying that her life hasn’t been harder than mine,” I argue. “I’m not one of those people who thinks that just because we elected a black president we’re magically postracial. I work with minority clients every day who’ve been screwed by the healthcare system and the criminal justice system and the educational system. I mean, prisons are run as a business. Someone’s profiting from keeping a steady stream of people going to jail.”

We had hosted some of Micah’s colleagues for dinner. I’d had high hopes of serving a gourmet meal but wound up making a taco bar and offering a store-bought bakery pie that I passed off as being homemade after I broke off the edges of the crust a little to make it slightly less perfect. Throughout the evening, my mind wandered. Granted, when conversation drifted toward rates of retinal nerve fiber layer loss in contralateral eyes of glaucoma patients with unilateral progression, I couldn’t be blamed. But I already was obsessing over my earlier argument with Ruth. If I was in the right, how come I couldn’t stop rehashing what I’d said?

“But you just don’t bring up race in a criminal trial,” I say. “It’s like one of those unspoken rules, you know, like Don’t use your brights in oncoming traffic…or Don’t be the asshole who brings a full cart to the twelve items or less lane. Even the cases based on stand-your-ground laws steer clear of it, and ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a white guy in Florida who got scared by a black kid and pulled a trigger. I get that Ruth feels singled out by her employer. But none of that has to do with a murder charge.”

Micah passes me a platter to dry. “Don’t take this the wrong way, babe,” he says, “but sometimes when you’re trying to explain something and you think you’re dropping a hint, you’re actually more like a Mack truck.”