Standing in the SDO truck, Frank calmed down enough to make eye contact with the little girl, who stood slack-jawed and sobbing against a wall.

"Ada?"

She didn't budge.

"Hey. Hey, kid. Ada, right? Hey, it's okay. It's gonna be okay, alright? We're gonna figure this out. I know you're scared. I'm—" Frank reached out to pat the girl's head, but one woman, then another, quickly blocked him. He gave them a look of genuine irritation, then realized what was happening. "I'm not a creep, okay? I'm just trying to help."

"She doesn't need your help," a woman said.

"She needs help," he said, softening his stance. Behind him, officers threw more people into the truck. One of them slammed into him, sending him tumbling into the women.

"Christ on a—"

"Watch it!"

Frank felt something knee-like in his groin and doubled over.

"Ow," he groaned. He looked up to see a tiny, triumphant Ada standing in a pose she had clearly picked up in martial arts class. "You? Seriously? Okay, kid. Keep that shit up and you just might be alright."

Something slumped against his leg, and he looked down to see an old man on his knees, trying to regain his balance. Frank reached out to help steady the man, who took his hand and scooted against the truck wall.

"You hurt?"

The old man shook his head and closed his eyes. Frank took in the scene inside the truck. There must have been thirty people inside what was essentially a big metal cage sitting in the summer sun. The heat in the truck was already oppressive, and officers were shoving more people in by the minute.

Outside, the scene wasn't much better. There were more SDOs than before, and they had the group surrounded. People frantically waved ID cards to prove they belonged within Brewerytown walls. If they passed the skin and temp check, they went home to clean houses with uninterrupted power and refrigerators stocked with fresh and imported foods.

Folks without identification begged others to vouch for them. One woman pleaded with another, "Please, Dolores! Ten years! We've been neighbors for ten years. What's wrong with you? Tell them!" Whatever the reason, Dolores kept her mouth shut.

Officers shoved the woman into the crowded second truck and slammed the door shut. Which left only one truck, the one Frank was in. He stared at the two trucks filled with humans, imagining the heat. The thirst. The old folks and the kids.

He leaned out and bellowed, "Foster!" His gravelly, resonant voice carried over the commotion, and several SDOs and dozens of civilians turned to look. A nearby office raised his baton as a warning, but Frank was undeterred.

"Foster! Answer me, you goddam coward!"

Frank heard a thud, then footsteps on the truck roof above him. A few seconds later, all six feet of Sergeant Foster stood in front of him, not ten feet away. She crossed her arms and gave him an appraising look.

"We have a problem here, sir?"

"Clearly you do," Frank said, wiping sweat and blood from his furrowed brow. "The hell is wrong with you, huh? Those are human beings you got locked in those trucks. There's an old man in here and a little kid about to die from heat stroke while you sucker punch an entire fucking neighborhood. You still calling this protection?"

Foster made a tight-lipped smile and nodded. "I am."

"Yeah? We'll see about that, I guess. I know you. I know all about you, don't I? You're Cheney's lackey."

Her face fell.

"Yeah, that's right," he said, nodding his head. "I know about you."

When ten seconds passed, then twenty, with no response from her, he kept going.

"This shit's inhumane, even for you."

Without taking her eyes off Frank, Foster said, "Alright, let's finish up here. Get those two trucks back to SD and unloaded. Carl? Temp check the rest of them. I'd like to make it home in time for dinner."

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A commotion erupted behind the remaining crowd. Two officers dragged a half naked person across the lawn and shoved them onto the road, where they fell face down on the gravel. A woman, wearing only a muddy shirt.

"Found this one sneaking around the fence buck naked."

The woman lifted her head slightly and groaned. Wet hair, thick with dirt and leaf litter, covered her face.

Foster turned and said, "Check her temp?"

"No need," the SDO said. "Take a look."

The woman gave no resistance as he peeled off her thin, filthy shirt. Scales covered most of her upper body. They spread across her naked torso, buttocks, shoulders, and arms down to her elbows. There were patches of raw, red skin, but mostly it was scales. Shimmering deep blue scales, just like...

"Bianca?" Frank gasped.

Foster's head whipped around. "What did you say?" He opened his mouth to answer, but just shook his head. Foster turned to the woman again. "Bring her here."

They lifted the woman by the arms. She kicked and lashed out, clamping her teeth around an officer's uniformed forearm.

"Ahh!" the SDO screamed. "I'm bit! I'm bit!" He shoved the woman off him and backhanded her hard. Her face flew sideways, and in that moment Frank saw.

"B!" He jumped down from the truck, but officers were on him before he could take a single step.

"Get control of her," Foster commanded.

The officers grabbed Bianca and shoved her forward. She twisted and kicked until they forced her to the ground. She kneeled there, tossing her tangled hair and lifting her bloody chin, the defiant and wild Bianca Frank hadn’t seen in years, spitting her disgust at Foster's feet.

"I don't have time for this," Foster said with an air of boredom. She lifted her pistol. In slow motion, she pointed the muzzle at Bianca's chest and squeezed.

Later, he would swear he saw the bullet cut a rippled path through the humid summer air. A monstrous bullet, all metal and lethal velocity. Not a clean-cutting laser. Not a one-and-done sonic blast. A horrible, flesh ripping, bone shattering bullet hurtling straight for his precious friend's one and only life.

"No!" Frank screamed. The word hung in midair, the sound refusing to budge. He could have snatched the sonic waves and cradled them in his palm. He strained against the SDOs, his breath coming ragged and hot.

A moment later, time caught up with them all.

"B! Oh god, no! Why?" he cried, as her body slumped to the ground. "Why did you shoot her?"

"Get them out of here," Foster said.

Frank lost sight of Bianca in the onslaught of officers. They shoved him into the truck and slammed the door shut. He stood on tiptoe to see through the ventilation grate.

"B! I'm here! I'm right here. Jesus, I can't see you."

The truck lurched forward, slamming his face into the grate. No, no, no, he thought. He stood on tiptoes again, trying and failing to find his friend in the crowd.

"I'll find you, B!" He yelled through the grate. "Oh god. I'll come back, B! You hear me? I'll come back!"

Human cargo bounced off metal and wood as the truck took turns and broken roads at full speed, sirens wailing. A woman cried out and extended a lightly scaled arm, her hand dangling limp and lifeless from a badly fractured wrist.

Frank counted under his breath—58 Mississippi, 59 Mississippi, EIGHT—as he ticked off the minutes of the harrowing transport. He looked out over the other passengers and focused on the thin slashes of light which filtered through the ventilation grate. He couldn't close his eyes. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Bianca.

At 12 minutes and 23 seconds, the truck slammed to a halt and sent them all flying. Frank stood and went to the grate, but all he could see was gray wall a few feet from the truck. There wasn't much light. Some sort of tunnel, maybe. The sirens cut off, and he heard the officers exit the cab.

He already knew what he had to do.

Frank took several deep breaths in quick succession. Metal clinked as someone released the heavy door lock. Frank tensed, ready to bolt. His mind, in full survival mode, went blank except for the seconds still ticking away—30 Mississippi, 31 Mississippi, 32 Mississippi.

Frank felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but held his position.

"No," someone whispered.

"Fuck off."

"Frank, no."

Frank whirled around. In the darkness, he could barely make out a face, let alone features. "Who the—"

The door slid open, and the blast of fresh air made Frank want to weep like a baby. The other passengers, gasping for air, rushed forward and nearly knocked him off the platform.

"Out!" An SDO ordered.

Frank jumped out and looked at the officer, who was dressed like the rest in full body armor and pleximask. Could be it was the same SDO who struck Bianca in the face. Could be not. Frank couldn't tell, and it didn't matter, anyway. The bastards were all the same to him.

"Hands on the wall," another SDO commanded.

Stuck between running, fighting, and complying, Frank took a split second too long to decide and felt a sharp jab in his ribs just before someone yelled, "Move!"

White hot electric pain spread across his torso. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. His diaphragm spasmed, making it nearly impossible to breathe. His decision made for him, Frank turned around and placed his hands on the wall like a good little boy. Ada fell in place beside him. Little red-faced, grimy Ada, fatherless and alone. Her tiny fingers dug into the gray brick like her life depended on it. Maybe it did. He took in her hands, her pink, tear-streaked cheeks, her perfect little braid coming undone.

Frank looked up to commiserate with another adult human, and locked eyes with the last person on earth he expected to see in that gods-forsaken place.

For the first time since he could remember, Frank Chaplin was speechless.