“He’s my little brother and sister’s dad, so like I kinda get why my mama keeps dealing with him…” Little looser. “But I hate him. Every time he come around, he mad about somethin’, and he takes it out on my mom.”

   “Sounds familiar,” Justyce says.

   “And I be wanting to stick around for my brother and sister but—wait.” Quan looks up at Justyce, whose chin is now propped in his hand.

       All eyes (and ears) on Quan.

   “What’d you say?” Quan asks.

   “Hmm?”

   “Just a second ago.”

   “Oh. I said that sounds familiar.”

   “Whatchu mean?”

   Justyce sighs. “My dad was in the military and went to Afghanistan. Ever since he came back, he’s been…different. He drinks a lot and sometimes has these ‘episodes,’ my mom calls them. Out of nowhere he’ll start yelling and throwing stuff.” Now Justyce isn’t looking at Quan anymore. “He hits her sometimes.” Justyce swipes at his eyes.

   Quan stands up. “You ever come here during the day?”

   “Occasionally.” Jus sniffles. “Sorry for crying.”

   “Man, whatever. Now I see how you won that ‘academic’ thingy.”

   “Huh?”

   “What kinda fifth grader says occasionally?” Quan shakes his head. “I’m gonna head home and check on my brother and sister,” he says. “You should go check on your mom.”

   The boys meet eyes, and understanding passes between them.

   “I’ll see you around.” Quan ducks and slips through the rocket’s arched entryway.

   He’s almost back at the edge of the rubber-floored playground when—

   “Hey! Hold up!”

       Quan turns around to find Justyce is headed in his direction.

   “You didn’t tell me your name,” Justyce says, out of breath.

   Quan smiles—“Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr.”—and lifts his hand. “Call me Quan.”

   “It was real nice to meet you, Quan,” Justyce says, smacking his palm against Quan’s and then hooking fingers. “Even, uhh…despite the circumstances.”

   Now Quan laughs. “You’re ten years old, man. Loosen up.”

   “Sorry.”

   “Don’t be.” Quan shoves his fists in his pockets. It’s gotten cooler. “Nice to meet you too, Justyce.”

   Quan turns on the heel of his well-worn Jordans and heads home.

   Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr. remembers the night everything changed. He’d fallen asleep on the leather sectional in Daddy’s living room while watching Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events (the movie), and was dreaming about Count Olaf—who’d gotten a tan, it seemed, and looked suspiciously like his mama’s “boyfriend,” Dwight—falling into a pit of giant yellow snakes like the one from Montgomery Montgomery’s reptile room. Screaming bloody murder as he got sucked down into the scaly, slithery quicksand.

   Quan’s pretty sure he was smiling in his sleep.

   But then there was a BOOM that startled him so bad, he jolted awake and fell to the floor.

   Which wound up being a good thing.

   Next thing Quan knew, more police officers than he could count were pouring into the house with guns drawn.

   He stayed down. Hidden.

   Wouldn’t’ve been able to get up if he tried, he was so scared.

       There was a commotion over his head—Daddy’s room.

   Lots of thumping. Bumping. A yell (Daddy’s?). Muffled shouting.

              Get down! Put your hands in the air—

    Oww, man! Not so tight, you tryna break my arm?

   Wham. BAM!

   Walls shaking.

   Was the ceiling gonna fall?

   Then the tumult shifted to the left. He heard Daddy’s door bang against the wall, then what sounded like eight tons of giant bricks tumbling down the stairs.

        Slow down, man! Damn—

          Keep your mouth shut!

   Quan closed his eyes.

        Chill out, man! I’m not resisti—

   There was a sharp pain in Quan’s shoulder as his arm was suddenly wrenched in a direction he was sure it wasn’t supposed to go. A thick arm wrapped around his midsection so tight it squeezed all the air out of him…or maybe it all flew out because of the speed at which his body left the ground.

   He couldn’t even scream. Looking back, that was the scariest part. That his voice was gone. That he couldn’t cry out. That he’d lost all control of his body and surroundings and couldn’t even make a sound to let the world know he wasn’t feelin’ it.

   It’s how he feels now as he jolts awake in his cell at the Fulton Regional Youth Detention Center, unable to breathe.

       Quan tries to inhale. And can’t. It’s like that cop’s still got him wrapped up and is squeezing too tight. No space for his lungs to expand.

   Can’t.

   Breathe.

   The darkness is so thick, he feels like he’s drowning in it. Maybe he is. Maybe Quan can’t draw breath because the darkness has solidified. Turned viscous, dense and sticky and heavy. That would also explain why he can’t lift his arms or swing his legs over the edge of this cotton-lined cardboard excuse for a “bed” that makes his neck and back hurt night after night.

   What Quan wouldn’t give to be back in his queen-sized, memory foam, personal cloud with crazy soft flannel sheets in his bedroom at Daddy’s house. If he’s going to die in a bed—because he’s certainly about to die—he wishes it could be that bed instead of this one.

   He shuts his eyes and more pieces of that night fly at him:

   Daddy yelling

        Don’t hurt my son!

          before being shoved out the front door.

   The sound of glass breaking as the unfinished cup of ginger ale Quan left on the counter toppled to the floor. His foot hit it as the officer with his dumb, muscly arm crushing Quan’s rib cage carried Quan through the kitchen like Quan was some kind of doll baby.