I can’t exactly make out his words, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were along the lines of: you need to disperse, go home, this is a peaceful town, we’ll hang this sonofabitch tomorrow. Ah, mob justice at its finest. I lie back on the small bench in the cell and stare up at the flaking ceiling, honestly not giving two shits about whether or not Sawyer is doing okay right now. All I feel right now is numb. My hand ought to be throbbing—shit, the knuckles are bloody and three times their normal size. I think I might have even broken one, I hit that asshole so hard with that last punch. But my hand doesn’t hurt. Neither do my wrists that are already turning purple from the rudimentary handcuffs this sheriff used. None of it hurts except for a knot in my chest every time I imagine Jim, scared out of his mind, being strung up on some tree. My friend—my kind, big-hearted friend—died because of the color of his skin. Katrina was pissed. Well—sad and pissed all at once. “What will you do?”
