Shift

It feels as though I’ve been lying on this concrete bench for days. Holding cells are nothing like in the movies. The room I’ve been in for hours is small, but not dirty. It’s void of feeling, almost sterile, and I’m alone. There’s an intercom on the wall that’s always on, like a baby monitor for detainees. I said “hello” into it when they first left me in here, and when a man’s voice boomed back a “yeah, what?” I jumped. Maybe I’m in a room like this because I’m a minor, or maybe they’ve already rooted out the truth and realize I wasn’t lying when I said I had no part in what went down at my house. That I’m just a kid.

I’m just a kid.

Whatever the reason, I’m glad I’m nowhere near Colt. I never want to see him again.

I would like to see my mother, though. I need to know she’s all right, whether she’s alive.

The intercom buzzes and I wait for the deep voice to tell me what’s next, but instead I hear steps outside my door. I push back against the far wall and draw my legs in as the door jerks open.

“Someone’s here for you. Come on, Dustin,” the officer says. This is a new guy, older, hair graying on the sides. My eyes dart around him suspiciously.

“Let’s go,” he barks.

More like it.

I get to my feet and rub the cuts on my wrists from where the zip-tie cuffs dug into my skin. I follow the man who came to get me down a long hallway. I don’t remember seeing any of this on my way in. But I was manic and scared, so the last several hours is lodged in my memory much like panels in a comic book.

We reach the end of the hall and he buzzes his badge against a pad by a thick metal door. When it opens, he nudges me inside. And when my eyes focus on Ha