“Shit!” He heard as he entered the sheriff’s department.

Deputy Gwen Wolf slammed her palm on the old keyboard sitting in front of her. “McGreevy! Keyboard again!” she shouted.

“Technical difficulties?” said Alan, causing the petite woman to jerk around with her hand on her chest.

“Christ, Alan. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to startle a woman with a gun?”

“Sorry. I didn’t see Comstock around, so I figured no one would shoot me.”

“He left, thank God. Him and his militia decided to throw a tailgater to watch the Grizzlies smack the Bobcats.”

“Maybe that’s why we don’t get along,” he said, referring to the historic rivalry between the University of Montana Grizzlies and the Montana State University Bobcats. Alan had spent his entire young life west of the great Continental Divide (also known as Griz Country), but when he’d gone off to college, it was east to MSU in Bozeman.

“So, you’re a Cats fan?” she asked.

“Not really. Just an alumni.” He couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing her body; nor could he rid the night before from his mind.

“It’s enough to get on Comstock’s bad side. He thinks this’ll be the year they break the losing streak.”

“People have been saying that for years,” said Alan.

“Hell, if the Griz lose again, they’ll be back here drunk and angry,” said Gwen.

“Then go Griz!” Alan said. Was he flirting? “So who’s your team?” He was…

“Bulldogs,” she said flatly and hit the keyboard. “McGreevy!”

“Georgia?”

“Yale.”

“Oh. Oh, wow.”

“What? Didn’t think a redneck from the Rez would ever wear the ivy?”

“Not that.” He glanced around at the drab decor of the oppressive building.

“I could have done better for myself?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I wanted to make a difference here. I was sixteen the first time I set foot in this building. My dad was in the Highwaymen. He shut down I-90, trying to stop the automated trucks. They locked him up back there.” She indicated the cells where Francis was currently being held. “They destroyed him with the legal system. So, I got into Yale, criminal justice. I thought a fancy degree would do something.”

“Those were crazy times,” said Alan.

“AI took over the roads anyway.” She pushed a clipboard across the counter. “You’ll have to sign in to see him.”

“How is he?”

“Quiet. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t eat. Try to get him to eat.”

Alan held up the McDonald’s bag he’d been holding.

“He’d be better off with jailhouse food,” she said.

“Yeah, but this is familiar,” he said.

“You’re the shrink.” She gave him a weak smile. Her eyes were too beautiful, too green, for this fucking place.

“I guess... you know, about last night,” he mustered.

“No.” She shook her head. “Stop.”

The short deputy came out of the back and picked up the keyboard. “I’ll have you up and running in no time, Gwen,” he said.

“Thanks, McGreevy. Alan, Francis will be happy to see you.”

He followed her down the drab corridor. Paint was peeling off the cement walls. She stopped before the drop into the holding area and looked up at him. Thumbs notched in her duty belt. “Look, last night was a thing, but I’m… distant. I deal with it.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” he said. “Can I ask you something? I mean, something official?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve read your report about a dozen times. I still don’t understand why Francis was arrested.”

“I’m not supposed to talk about cases,” she said.

“Please, Gwen, I’m desperate.”

“I wasn’t going to arrest him.” She lowered her voice. “The order came from higher up.”

“Comstock?”

“No, Alan, the attorney general in Helena.”

“The AG? Why?”

“I’m assuming Taylor was notified instantly. And, well, you would have found out tomorrow—they’re transferring him to Deer Lodge. He’ll await trial there in high security.”

“Fuck.”

Stolen novel; please report.

Deer Lodge was the state prison town of Montana and home to a number of maximum-security facilities. Alan had visited the town on several occasions to consult with patients and other mental health professionals, and every time he had to go, he felt a dark cloud descend upon him. It was a place where the worst of the worst were kept. If the criminal justice system was a mechanical beast, Deer Lodge was its steel jaws and teeth—a place where hope was crushed.

It made him shudder to think of Francis being shoved into one of those desperate units behind a gauntlet of security cameras and buzzing doors.

The boy was curled into the fetal position on the hard bench of his cell, arms covering his eyes. Gwen opened the cage door with her badge and motioned for him to enter.

“I’ll give you guys some time.” She briefly placed her hand on his shoulder. With her leaving, the door locked with an electric buzz.

Alan sat by Francis’s feet. “Hey there.” He gently touched a bony ankle.

Francis stirred and lifted his arm away from his face. The swelling around his eye was going down.

“Dr. Smith… I mean, Alan.” His voice was uneven and defeated.

“You okay?” Alan asked.

The boy nodded.

“Gwen said you won’t eat. You need to eat if you can.”

“I don’t like it here, Alan.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“Fuck this place.”

“Yeah, fuck it.”

Francis extended his hand, and Alan held it. He felt a feeble pressure. The boy’s fingers were cold.

“Thanks for coming to see me.”

“Got something for you.” He set the fast-food bag between them. Francis looked at it but did not move. Alan gently pulled him up.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, brushing back his hair.

“Come on.” He put his arm around his shoulder, and the boy leaned into him, light and frail. “You got to eat, buddy.”

Francis reached into the bag and pulled out the hamburger, unwrapped it, and took a large bite. “There,” he said with his mouth full, “you happy?”

“Thanks. Pretty good, ain’t it?”

“It’s unhealthy,” said Francis as he chewed.

“Yes, but you know… better than jail food.” Alan used the little square napkins to wipe away a dollop of ketchup on the corner of Francis’s mouth. “Francis, we need to talk about some stuff. I know you’re feeling overwhelmed right now.”

Francis shrugged, regarded Alan sideways, and said, “Let me have it. I can take it.”

“I know you can.” He was a brave kid. Alan would have crumbled in his position. “Tomorrow, they’re moving you to Deer Lodge.”

The boy dropped his burger back into the bag and faded against the cement wall. Deer Lodge was lore, the worst place on the Earth. The place you went when life was over.

“I can’t.” It was a plea, almost a cry.

“I’m going to do everything I can. And if you go to Deer Lodge, I’m going with you, and I’ll see you, just like now. I’ll see you every day. I’m with you through this. All of this. Every day of it.”

“They’ll get me there.” His eyes were those of a cornered animal, darting around the cell.

Breaking all formality and rules, Alan opened his arms. Francis, shaking with tears rolling down his face, fell into his embrace. He stroked his back, careful not to press too hard on his wounds.

“It’s going to be alright. I’m here. I’m not going to leave you,” he said, giving a promise he didn’t know he could keep, a promise he had broken in the past.

Gwen was watching on the corridor step.

Francis pulled back and wiped his tears and runny nose with his jail-house sleeve. He sighed heavily, shook his head of hair out of his face, and smiled.

Alan brushed his cheek with the back of his hand and tucked that unruly strand behind his elfish ear.

“I’m sorry. I won’t be such a pussy anymore.”

He chuckled. “Language, kid.”

“Sorry.”

“We will get through this… one day at a time.”

Francis squeezed his finger. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“No problem. Um, so, I have a question.” He dug the concert poster out of his pocket and unfolded it. “I really don’t understand this.”

Francis’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god! What the fuck? Cool! I never saw one before.”

“You didn’t make this?”

“No way. It’s good Photoshop. I look kinda badass.”

“If you didn’t make this, who did?”

“Dunno. Probably White Owl had something to do with it. Yep, see! White Owl Records.”

“Are you a singer?”

Francis shrugged and said, “I guess so.”

“And you have a record label?”

He nodded again with a huge grin.

“The person who gave me this poster said she heard about it two months ago from her son. They’ve been driving for five days.”

“That’s crazy!”

“The GPS indicates this building. The jail. Did you know you’d be in jail two months ago?”

“Nope. I didn’t even know I’d be having a concert until you told me.”

“You can’t have a concert here, now.”

“Not now,” chimed the boy. “The poster says 7 PM.”

“It’s almost five-thirty. Francis, you can’t have a concert here in jail.”

Francis rested a hand on Alan’s shoulder and said with a tone of wonder, “The music just happens. You can’t stop it.”

An electric excitement had taken over his body, and there was an impish sparkle in his eyes that moments before had been full of fear and tears.

“Shit! I don’t have my guitar.”

For a moment, Alan considered not telling him that he had his guitar, that the system could be navigated, could be survived. It was the prudent thing to do. The thing he would have done… before. But maybe it was the point of a midlife crisis. Maybe it was the stress of quitting his job and throwing all in for this fucking kid. Maybe it was that winter night thirteen years ago, or maybe it was something more, like the wildness he’d felt inside last night after believing it had forever died.

Or… it was the fire in Francis’s dark eyes. How could this kid have such determination after all he had been through? The scars on his body were graphic signifiers of an abuse he did not want to imagine. Torture. There was no other word for it.

“I went to see White Owl.”

“You did what? Shit, man, you could’ve died. There’re bears up there… and worse.“ The last part was a whisper.

“Well, Little Joe gave me a bell and a dream catcher.”

“I know LJ! He starts off like a jerk, but he’s a good guy. Did you see the big dream catcher I built?”

“The one in the trees? I did. You built that?”

“Yeah. Well, White Owl helped. She found the owl.”

Alan remembered the soft white feathers and the owl skeleton stretched out, its bleached skull staring into the void.

“It’s magic,” said Francis. “It stops the hunters. They haven’t been able to get to the cave since we put it up.”

“The hunters? Who are these hunters?”

Francis shook his head. Fear returned to his battered face.

“You can talk to me.” He held the boy’s hand in his. His fingernails were long and hard, the nails of a guitarist. “Who are the hunters, Francis?”

Gwen was at the cell door but stopped when Alan held up his hand.

With the sincerity of a child who believes in his own nightmares, Francis said, “The hunters want to stop the music forever.”

“Stop the music,” repeated Alan. He looked up at Gwen. She nodded. “Francis, I have your guitar.”

“What? You… you got it?”

“It’s out in my car.”

“Aw, hell yeah!” he shouted. Jumping into Alan’s lap, he kissed him on the cheek.

There was movement from the Gretas in their cell across the room.

“I need to go find Mickey,” Alan said.

“Yeah, bring Mr. Verona!”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t miss it.”

As Gwen locked the cell behind Alan, Francis said, “Don’t forget, seven o’clock!”

“What’s at seven?” asked Gwen.

Alan let her read the poster.

“Oh shit.”

On his way out, he saw the Gretas, still in their dirty rags, now on their knees, their hands over their heads in a mute gesture he did not understand.