Page 101 of The Bright Lands
“Yes, sir!”
“Put ’em in the fucking hospital!”
“Yes, sir!”
All eyes on Parter, wide pupils, Adderall and Oxy, their hands squeezed in their gloves, black paint dulling their cheeks.
“Because this is the only goddamn game you’ve got. You ain’t got school—school we’ll take care of. A job? That’s later. You boys, all you boys have is this.”
The boys piled out of the field house and corralled beneath the goal. The Bisonettes, stacked atop each other’s shoulders, had formed a wall to conceal them. Two pairs of girls—Bethany and Alisha, Jasmine and April (where, Luke wondered, was Kimbra Lott?)—held up the wide swathe of painted paper the team would tear through. A tall ghostly Bison was all that stood between them and the field.
The marching band caught someone’s signal. A moment later everyone in the Bentley stands was singing.
“My herd, my glory; my autumn years, my rightful story.”
And suddenly all forty Bison were staring at him. Staring at Luke. Of course. Somehow, without realizing it, Luke had been brought right to the front edge of their scrum, just where Dylan had always stood. And what would Dylan say now?
Dylan would say,What are you doing, Luke?
Garrett nodded to him. Mitchell. Tomas. The Turner twins. His boys. His brothers.
“Don’t fuck up!” Luke shouted.
“Hallelujah!” the Bison shouted back.
Luke turned to the shaky wall of paper, bent low and let out a roar.
JAMAL
Outside Jamal’s cell, Buddy “The Real Voice of Central Texas Sports” Laurie sputtered and popped through a tiny radio one of the deputies had brought in earlier and left on the hallway’s floor. The deputy, Jamal had noted at the time, hadn’t brought the radio close enough to the cell’s bars for him to adjust the signal. Or use it as a weapon.
“And it looks like Evers is still struggling to make good on that extraordinary rush the Bison enjoyed at kickoff,” Buddy said. “We’re closing in on the end of the first quarter and the Bison have yet to put a point on the board.”
The door at the end of the hallway opened with a squeal. Jamal recognized the smell of cinnamon cologne and rose from his cot. It was Mr. Irons, a bulging brown bag in his hand, followed by Deputy Jones.
Jones dialed down the radio, unlocked Jamal’s cell without a word.
Irons stepped inside and pushed the bag into Jamal’s hands. “Get dressed.”
Jamal stared at the unlocked door. He opened the bag wide enough to see inside it the clothes he’d been wearing at his arrest: leather jacket, jeans, Bison T-shirt.
“You can lace up your shoes in the car,” Irons said. “Hurry now. There’s no telling when the word will reach them.”
“Word about what?”
“Just hustle, will you?”
Jamal eyed the blinking security camera in the hall. A muted cheer came from the radio—Perlin had scored another touchdown.
“They won’t just let me leave,” he said, but already Jones was stepping away, taking a sudden interest in his boots.
“They don’t have a choice,” Irons huffed, handed Jamal a sheaf of paper. The wordsARREST WARRANTwere written fat and curly across the top. Below it read:
To any sheriff or officer of police, you are hereby commanded to arrest: JANAL WILLIAM REYNOLDS and bring him before...
“My middle name’s Davis,” Jamal said, blinking slowly at Irons. Only a day in a holding cell and already his mind had gone gummy. “And my name’s spelled—”
“You think I’ve been at the country club all day?” Irons pulled the jeans from the bag Jamal had dropped. “Hurry now. The judge in Austin only owes me the one favor. Boone will file a corrected warrant the second he gets the news. I plan to have you halfway to Georgia by then.”
