But then they’d start searching for the gun that did match. Which could lead to trouble for everyone, Martel especially. Quan knew what kind of contraband the guy had in his house. Which surely could lead to searches of Martel’s other properties.

   Quan couldn’t let that happen. Especially not after everything Martel and the guys had done for him. He wouldn’t’ve been able to live with himself.

   Even still, the “confession” surprised Quan when it popped out of his mouth that day.

   And just like that, his fate was signed, sealed, and delivered.

* * *

   —

   He didn’t intend to tell Justyce the truth in that letter. It just…came out. On the paper. Like some poison pulled from his veins by the power of the pen.

   And at first, he felt lighter, rubbing his thumb over the stamp to seal it to the envelope with Justyce’s name and PO box address scrawled on it. Handing it over to be mailed felt like a pranayama exhale. (Tay taught him all about those during the deep-breathing exercises she was teaching him for his PTSD stuff.)

   But over three weeks with no response?

   Part of him felt ridiculous. In the grand scheme of things, twenty-three days isn’t that long. Doc did say Jus had finals last week and would be driving home from college…Maybe dude got held up studying or some shit.

       But what if the letter got lost—or never got sent? Where would it be now? He hoped with everything in him that nobody else had read it.

   Then again, what if Justyce read it and told somebody?

   Quan’s mind churns itself practically inside out at the thought of the cops running the ballistics and sending a search team to Martel’s right this very minute.

   He pauses to look down at his paper. Instead of his essay, what’s written on the paper are the questions swirling in his head. He’s losing it.

   “Quan?” Doc says, startling him. “You all right over there?”

   “Huh?”

   “You look a little clammy. Listen, don’t stress over this. You’re going to do fine. I know it.”

   Quan drops his eyes and takes a deep breath.

        Another one.

    In for a five count through the nose

          then out

     just

     as

     slow.

   Realign

        his

          prana.

       (Or whatever.)

   Then, “Doc, I gotta tell you somethi—”

   The door to the classroom flies open, and the house-wide superintendent’s frame fills the entryway. “Banks, you got a visitor.”

   Quan looks at Doc, who is clearly just as surprised (and why wouldn’t he be?).

   “Huh?” Quan says to the giant man eyeing Quan like he’s waiting for him to strike.

   “That was English, wasn’t it? Let’s go.”

   “You can finish the essay later, Quan. Go handle your business.”

        But what business is there for him to handle?

   Quan doesn’t say a word as he begins packing his school stuff—

   “Leave it,” the superintendent says, rotating on a heel. “I’ll bring you back. Now hurry up.” He disappears into the hallway.

   After one final panicked glance in Doc’s direction, Quan follows the superintendent out. They hang a right at the dead end—which surprises Quan: the visitation room is in the other direction.

   “Uhh…sir? Not to question your sense of direction, but aren’t we going the wrong way?”

   The superintendent doesn’t respond.

   When they get to the end of this hallway, the superintendent uses a key to buzz open a door Quan’s never seen before. He follows the superintendent through, and then they hang one final left before the superintendent stops outside a room on the right. Door’s open…

       And Quan sees the last person he would’ve expected to make a pop-up visit:

   His lawyer.

   (If you can even call dude that. Assigned file-handler is probably more accurate.)

   John Mark is his name. He’s white. Late twenties. Took a public defender position fresh outta law school and been there for the two years since—Quan’s case is his first time “legally flying solo” (his words).

   Was Quan surprised the morning he came into one of the counsel rooms and found the young-looking dude sitting where his previous lawyer—who was actually good and seemed to really wanna help Quan—usually sat. John Mark stood and introduced himself. Let Quan know his previous counsel had moved out of state to take care of an elderly parent.

   And it’s not that John Mark is a bad lawyer. It just gets under Quan’s skin a bit how…little the dude seems to question anything. It’s like everything in the file is gospel, and there’s nothing else to be said about it. Which, on the one hand, Quan can kinda get—he did confess (sorta)…

   Still, though. Quan obviously knows there’s way more to the story. Isn’t it an attorney’s job to poke around for more information?

       Dude stands to greet Quan, grinning like all is right with the world.

   Which is when the already tiny light that still burns inside Quan

              goes a little dimmer.

   “Vernell!” He shakes Quan’s hand a little too vigorously.

   “I told you to call me Quan, man.”

   “That’s right, man, my bad.” He runs a hand through his George Clooney haircut. Jumpy as a jitterbug, like Mrs. Pavlostathis used to say.

        (He’s been thinking of her more and more lately.)

   “Anyway, have a seat, man—”

   “Quan.”

   Dude blinks a few times. Goes pink in the cheeks.

   Clears his throat.

   “My apologies, Quan.” Straightens his tie and pulls out a chair at the small table for Quan. “I have some news to share with you. Mind if we sit?”

   Quan complies. His eyes roam the small room where delinquents like him (if you let the state tell it) convene with their attorneys. The cinder block walls are painted the bizarre cloudy yellow of snot and are totally bare.