"And we stay."
Across town, Lieutenant Castellano sits in his office reviewing reports. The Williams girl is still in her apartment, still going to school. The eviction didn't stick because someone paid rent. He knows who.
He picks up his phone. "It's me. The Angels are protecting the girl. Adjust strategy. Contact CPS. Anonymous tips about neglect. If we can't evict them, we take the kid another way."
He hangs up, opens a drawer, pulls out a photo: Jamal Brooks, 16 years old, the boy who saw too much. History has a way of repeating itself.
In her apartment, Zara works on a social studies project about people who changed history. Most kids choose presidents. Zara writes about Claudette Colvin, a 15-year-old Black girl who refused to give up her bus seat nine months before Rosa Parks.
*History forgot her, but she did it first. She was brave when no one was watching.*
Zara underlines the last sentence. Thinks about the bombs, the bikers, the cash, about being erased from the news. Maybe bravery doesn't need an audience. Maybe it just needs to be done.
The caseworker arrives on a Thursday afternoon. Her name is Diana Ross, which she's learned to announce quickly before people make the joke. She's 42, Black, overworked, carrying a caseload of 63 families when department guidelines say 30 is maximum. She doesn't want to be here, but protocol is protocol.
She knocks on Apartment 3B.
Kesha answers, still in her work uniform from the laundromat. Her shift ended twenty minutes ago; she ran home because the school called, said someone from Child Protective Services needed to speak with her.
"Ms. Williams, I'm Diana Ross from CPS. May I come in?"
Kesha's face goes pale. "What's this about?"
"We received reports. I need to do a home visit. Standard procedure."
Kesha steps aside. Diana enters, notepad in hand, eyes scanning. The apartment is small, cramped, but clean. No dishes piled in the sink. No garbage overflowing. The furniture is old, patched with duct tape, but not filthy. There's food in the refrigerator—she checks discreetly: milk, eggs, bread, vegetables, real food.
Zara sits at the kitchen table doing homework. She looks up, wary.
"Hi, sweetheart. I'm Ms. Ross. Just here to talk to your mom, okay?"