She thought again about the afternoon last week, when she and Galway had sat down with Michael Palmer. Things were bigger than anyone realized, he had said, and worse. And she'd humored him. Said if he had proof, she'd act on it. She'd said it the way she said a lot of things on this job, a voice aimed at calming people, at mollifying the crazies. Not really believing.

And then someone had killed him.

She sipped her coffee and gazed out the window, wondering if that counted as proof.

In the dream, Washington Matthews was back in his cell. Bare concrete floors and the scarred metal of the open toilet. History books from the prison library stacked neatly on his desk. Pharaoh snoring in the rack above, that wet choking gargle bouncing off lonely midnight walls. Washington thought of getting out of bed, and then in the way of dreams, he suddenly was, just standing barefoot in the dim light of lockdown. The air was thick and humid. He stretched his body, prison muscles and bruised knuckles, and in his chest that old cold feeling, the song of twisting metal.

Pharaoh snored louder, and Washington went to bump his cellie, tell him to roll his ass over. Only as he got closer, he realized Pharaoh wasn't alone. He had his arm around a thin figure, a slender black boy with a cauliflower ear spooned up against him. The boy was eight, and the thick wet gurgling was coming from the bloody ruin where his throat used to be.

Washington tried to run. His limbs were bound with sticky ropes.

Then he woke to find himself bound with sticky ropes.

It took a moment to realize that it was his sheets that tied him, sweat-soaked from the heat. August. The dog days of summer. He'd read somewhere that the phrase came from Sirius, the Dog Star, whose conjunction with the sun used to mark the hottest months of the year. In modern times the conjunction is slowly coming earlier each year, something to do with the Earth wobbling. He struggled free of the bedding, wobbly himself. His hand hit something heavy and smooth, and in the sharp sunlight he just had time to recognize the highball glass before it dropped to the hardwood floor.

"Shit." He stopped thrashing, gently worked his arms loose, and patted around until he found the Beefeater. Empty. He set the bottle on the nightstand, then extricated his legs. Sallust Crispus's "The Conspiracy of Catiline" lay open on the bed, the pages wet. The book was ruined, but at least he hadn't finished the whole bottle this time.

Washington swung his feet over the edge of the bed. The dream muscles were gone, replaced with droopy man-breasts and a forty-three-year-old paunch. His temples were sore and his eyes spiked. A vision of the boy with the cauliflower ear was painted on the inside of his mind.

In the shower he danced as the water flickered hot-cold-hot. Trimmed his mustache in the mirror, thinking how his days of looking like Richard Roundtree were over. Now it was more like James Earl Jones, and that on a good day, which today wasn't.

There was a racket through the floor. Something metal gonged. A pause, and then the sound of yelling in two languages. Washington grimaced, yanked his pants on and ran for the door, struggling with his shirt as he went. Took the stairs in a rumbling plunge.

In the kitchen, Oscar and the new boy – Diego? – were screaming at each other and bucking against the arms holding them back. Silverware gleamed on the counter, and a bag of groceries had been knocked over, spilling oranges across the hardwood floor. Two boys had a solid grip on Diego, while Ronald's monstrous arms wrapped around Oscar from behind, nearly lifting him off the ground.

"Let me go, putas!" Diego's face burned scarlet as he tried to shake free.

Washington stepped into the kitchen. "Gentlemen." He didn't yell, but everyone's head cut sideways. A guilty look crept into Oscar's eyes. "This dude," he started, "came at me outta nowhere."

"That's a fucking lie, you piece of-" Diego bucked and struggled.

Washington sighed. His head hurt too much for this right now. He took a saucepan from the drying rack and stepped in front of Diego. The boy saw the heavy pan and threw himself harder against the arms holding him, fear flashing in his eyes. Washington drew his arm back and grit his teeth, feeling that old cold song of twisting metal.

Then, hard as he could, he slammed it down on the counter.

The impact was shockingly loud, and everyone froze. "Gentlemen," Washington said again, looking back and forth, decided to start with Oscar. He should have known better; he'd been coming here for months. Washington stared, taking in the rage in Oscar's eyes, the pits in his cheeks, mementoes of a driveby. The boy was alive only because the shooter hadn't known the difference between birdshot and buckshot, and yet here he was, falling back to the old ways.

"You can leave," Washington said, "anytime you like. No one is forced to stay. You can go back to the street, back to putting your work in. I know you're strong enough," glanced over his shoulder, "both of you. I respect your strength." He set the pan down. "But is strength enough?" He paused, nodded at Ronald, who unwound twenty-inch arms from Oscar's chest. "What did strength get you, Ronald?"

"Four years gladiator school." The man spoke quietly, his voice at once rumbling and soft. "Me shot three times. My l'il brother dead."

Washington nodded. "That's right. And you know why?" He gestured at the two boys holding Diego. They slowly released him, but stayed close. Diego puffed out his chest, kept his face hard, but didn't make a move. "Because that kind of strength isn't enough." Washington stepped forward, put a hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling the play of muscles beneath. Looked him in the eye. "You know that. That's why you're here.

"The street says stand up straight. Take shit from no man, right? Murder if you got to." He shrugged. "That's a start. But when everybody gets that same lesson, what happens?"

Washington scanned their faces. Other than Ronald, not one of them was over nineteen. Most had been banging since they were shorties, twelve or thirteen years old. Children of single mothers, never knew a father figure. That they were listening at all was a miracle, a testament to how badly they wanted out of the life. Even Christ hadn't been able to sell salvation to contented sinners.

"Everybody here came on their own. Left their set and came to me for help. Climbed past the sign says Lantern Bearers, knocked on my door. Said, 'Dr. Matthews, I'm tired. There got to be more.' " He paused. "And I said, 'Son, there is.' "

"That vendejo disrespected Vice Lords." Diego turned his head and spat. "Shit don't go unanswered."

Washington shook his head. "You leave that behind. No street names, no flying colors. If you're out, you got to get all the way."

"I want out. But he don't get to piss on my people."

"I understand," Washington said. "They're your friends. Su familia."

"That's right."

"You were with them years, they looked out for you."

Diego nodded at him, wary.

"So why are you here?"

"Huh?"

"Why come here?"

"Because…" Diego struggled. "My girl, she embarazada, right? Six months. And I don't want my baby growin' up to be no-"

"Gangster?" Washington asked.

Diego shrugged, looked away.

"Coming here, son, that took strength. More strength than the street." He stepped closer, locked eyes with Diego. "I respect that." He held the gaze for a few more seconds, let the boy see he meant it. "Nobody is forced to stay. You want to go," he gestured down the hall, "door's over there. Go back to banging and hustling and always looking over your shoulder. But if you stay, you leave the rest behind. You hear?"