Montrey David Filly—African American, eighteen, long and lean with shoulder-length locs and very little impulse control

    Bradley Craig Mathers—White, seventeen, blond boy-bun, gold grill that spells BRAD across his lower teeth

    Martel Montgomery—African American, thirty, tall with an athletic build and faded haircut, cool/confident exterior

    Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr.—African American, sixteen, bystander(ish)

Setting:

        EXTERIOR: Martel Montgomery’s driveway and front yard—nighttime

    After exiting their car, the two officers, with hands on their utility belts near their firearms, approach the group of boys gathered in the driveway around an older-model luxury SUV.

         TISON

    Evening, fellas.

    TREY

    ’Sup, officers?

    TISON

    Sorry to disrupt your night, but we received a complaint about the noise level.

    BRAD

    Lemme guess: Barbie and Ken up the road called cuz they didn’t get an invite to the cookout.

    All the boys laugh. Castillo instinctively grips the handle of his holstered gun.

    BRAD (CONT’D)

          (raising his hands)

    Whoa now, officer. It was a joke.

    TREY

          (to the other boys)

    One of y’all let Martel know the cops are here.

         Quan jogs up to the house—uncomfortably thanks to the small firearm rubbing against his bare ankle—and disappears inside. Castillo, with his hand still on his gun, sizes each boy up.

    A few people leave the house and head away on foot before MARTEL MONTGOMERY comes out onto the porch, hands in pockets, with a small group of African American boys behind him.

    Quan returns to the group at the SUV. (Though he has no idea why and doesn’t remember the walk.)

    MARTEL

          (shouting)

    Something I can help you with, officers?

    TISON

    Need ya to keep your hands where I can see ’em, son.

    Martel smirks, pulls his hands out, and raises them.

    MARTEL

    My apologies.

         TISON

    You’re the owner of this home?

    MARTEL

    That I am.

    TISON

    You, uhh…

    (beat as he looks around)

    …mind if we have a word?

    MARTEL

    Sure, but—

    Martel grabs the right side of his pants, and Tison freezes, hand hovering near his firearm. Behind him, Castillo shifts into a shooting stance, gun drawn and aimed at Martel, who lifts his pant leg, revealing his ankle monitor.

    MARTEL (CONT’D)

    —can’t leave the porch.

    Tison exhales and relaxes.

    TISON

    All right, we’re coming to you.

         MARTEL

    That’s cool. But I’d appreciate your partner lowering his weapon before approaching my house.

    Tison’s head whips around.

    TISON

          (under his breath)

    Put your goddamn gun down!

    CASTILLO

    You sure you trust these assholes?

    TISON

    Whether or not I trust ’em is irrelevant, kid. There are twelve of them and two of us. Lower it.

    CASTILLO

    No disrespect, sir, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

    TISON

          (to Martel)

    Bear with us a moment, please.

    Martel nods once and crosses his arms.

         Quan definitely isn’t breathing. The itch at his ankle becomes a burn as his eyes trace the barrel of Castillo’s pistol to its target: the one man who’s actually been around and worked to keep Quan safe and on some semblance of a straight and narrow.

    Quan tugs at his own pant leg without thinking.

    TISON (CONT’D)

          (coaxing, to Castillo)

    Tommy, I know you’re scared, but you gotta lower the weapon before things escalate.

    CASTILLO

    I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that. I know what guys like these are capable of—

    There’s sudden movement beside the Range Rover, and Castillo whips right with his gun still extended.

          *BANG*

     *BANG*

         TREY

          (ducking)

    The fu—

          *BANG*

    CUT TO BLACK

   Quan blinked.

        There was ringing in his ears. Then shouting. And cussing.

          Blinked.

    Somebody bumped his arms, which he realized were extended in front of him.

          Blinked.

   His head swam and there was a sharp twinge in his temple as the ringing died away and the blinding, spinning light of the police cruiser came into focus.

        When had that been turned on?

   “Dawg, we gotta MOVE!” someone said, grabbing him by the upper arm and pulling hard.

   That’s when Quan noticed the body on the ground. Facedown. Dressed in all blue. Military buzz cut. Buff.

        But no longer puffed up.