Vernon turned on the overhead lights and lit up a Robusto as soon as I let him inside the shop. He handed one to Clete, too, and Clete near burst from pride as Vernon lit it for him. Then Clete sucked in a big lungful of smoke that turned him green as springtime in the light from Mama’s Chinese lanterns. Vernon cackled and smacked his back, saying, “Ain’t s’posed to inhale, son!” Then he offered one to me. I declined, and Vernon shrugged. Said, “Here’s the story: me and my friends’ve been deputized special to help shut down this Negro uprising we got goin’ on. And as a duly sworn officer of the law, I’m enlisting your help.”

I must have looked as dubious as I felt, for Clete said, “It’s true, Will. Some old coon down at the courthouse wouldn’t hand over his pistol when a white deputy told him to. Next thing you know, there’s guns firing and seven kinds of hell breaking loose, and all because those Greenwood boys don’t know their place.”

Vernon grunted, then started in like General Pershing himself, talking about skirmish lines and battle plans and how the Negroes had made their stand just south of Third Street. “Turns out some of ’em fought in the war and picked up a thing or two about combat,” he said. “We aim to show ’em they’d have been better off learning to duck.”

At that, he took Maybelle out of the holster on his belt and carved two more notches into her with his pocket knife. Clete grinned and looked back and forth between me and Vernon, asking did I know what the notches meant.

“He knows,” Vernon said, squinting against the wavering column of smoke from his cigar. Then he blew the filings off of Maybelle. Said, “Now that we got the ammo we came for, the three of us best get moving. We got a long night ahead of us.”

Only I didn’t want to go anywhere with Vernon and Clete and their guns. So I said again how Pop had told me to guard the store, and Clete insisted Pop had sent them to get me.

“He truly said that?” I asked Clete direct. “He said for you to fetch me?”

Clete’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well, he didn’t get a chance to come right out and say for us to fetch you,” he said, “but that’s only because we got separated once the fighting heated up.”

Which told me straight off that Pop hadn’t said any such thing, and that I’d been suckered into opening the shop door in the first place. Though, of course, there would have been hell to pay if I hadn’t.

After that, Clete yammered on about war and duty and white men needing to stand up for what was theirs. Vernon’s dead eyes stayed on me until Clete finally shut up. Then Vernon said, “Listen to me and listen close, Half-breed: there’s good niggers and bad ones. Good ones know their place. Bad ones don’t. What’s happening here tonight is an old-fashioned purge. We’re gonna flush the bad ones out of Tulsa once and for all.”

I gave no response, for there was nothing I could think to say. Then Vernon pushed his face so close to mine that I felt the heat from the tip of his cigar against my cheek. “I’ll brook no cowardice, boy,” he said. “Now you quit pissin’ and moanin’ like a damned woman and come fight!”

I thought of Joseph and Ruby then, and Angelina and her grandbabies, and knew in my heart what I believed.

“No, sir, Mr. Fish,” I said softly. “I can’t do that.”

Clete was silent beside me. Vernon’s face went white with fury. He walked to the demo machine Pop and I used to play music for customers and, casual as could be, pushed it over. Wood splintered. Metal twisted.

“Let’s try that again,” Vernon said. “You’re going to come with us right now or so help me God I’ll destroy every last thing in this place and tell your pa you weren’t man enough to protect it from rioters. Clete here will back me up, won’t you?”

Clete focused on his boots but mumbled yes quick enough. And though the thought of Vernon ruining the shop was none too pleasant, it was my fear of what he’d do if he found Joseph in the back room that tipped the scales on my decision once and for all.

“All right, Mr. Fish,” I said. “I’ll come.”

“Good,” Vernon muttered. Then he spun me about by the shoulders and shoved me out the door. I stopped on the sidewalk, saying I had to lock up. And I went slow as I could, leaning my Springfield against the door, dropping the keys, pretending the bolt was stubborn. So that by the time I looked up and across the street, Clete had got behind the wheel of his daddy’s Cadillac and Vernon was climbing into the seat beside him. Their cigars glowed red in the hot night air. And though darkness cloaked Vernon’s features, I could still picture the smile on his face. The one saying he’d won, and I was nothing but a stupid boy.

Shots sounded to the north. So many I lost count. Then silence, until Vernon Fish broke it.

“Let’s go, Half-breed,” he cried. “The night’s young, and we’ve got killin’ to do.”

The Cadillac’s engine growled to life. My pulse quickened. And without letting myself overthink the matter, I loosed a curse loud and vivid enough to make Vernon and Clete spin around, mouths open in surprise.

“Forgot my shotgun shells,” I hollered. And before either one of them could say a word to stop me, I was through the door I hadn’t locked in the first place.

“Joseph!” I yelled, running to the storeroom. But there was no sign of him there, and my heart sank, worrying he’d gone out through the back. I called his name again as I swapped the door keys in my hand for the truck key in my pocket. And just as I was about to go look for Joseph in the alley, I heard my name from the darkest corner of the room.

There being no time to chat, I shouted for him to follow me to the truck. Then the two of us were outside in the warm night air, running on the balls of our feet to keep our heels from clipping the concrete. I got in my side and jammed the key into the ignition, praying the engine would catch easy. And for once the heavens listened, so that as soon as Joseph had got beside me with the passenger door shut, I hit the reverse pedal and dropped the throttle level hard. The truck bucked and squealed onto Main Street like an unbroke horse. I swung its nose north. Went to neutral. Stomped the clutch. And promptly felt the engine go dead.

There we were, ass backwards to Vernon and Clete, motor stalled, Clete shouting, Vernon sputtering, the Cadillac’s engine revving. I stepped on the starter. The truck’s motor churned and refused to catch. The Cadillac backed towards us. I saw Vernon Fish in my rearview mirror, looking angry and exhilarated all at once. Then he caught sight of Joseph next to me, and the look turned into something else altogether.

At that moment, everything felt far away and quiet. I had no heartbeat. No breath. There was only the heavy night air against my damp skin and the stubborn whine of the truck’s engine. I hovered in that nothingness, suspended somewhere between where I needed to be and where I was, until a bullet stripped the haze from around me.

It passed by so close that the percussion of it hurt my ears. I turned and saw Vernon’s hand raised, aiming Maybelle’s muzzle at the truck.

Joseph shook my arm and screamed for me to go. I pressed the starter one more time. The engine rolled and caught and roared. I pushed the clutch in. First gear took. And finally, finally, we were moving north.

“Faster,” Joseph said, quiet at first, but louder once Clete got the Cadillac moving behind us. Headlamps shone in the windscreen glass. I revved the engine high and shifted into second. Then Joseph was pointing left and saying to turn so we didn’t drive straight into the battle line of white men fighting black. I did as he said at the next street, cutting hard enough that the whole truck tilted into the turn. Our tires held the road, though, carrying us west with the twin orbs of the Cadillac’s headlamps close behind.

Joseph leaned forward with his hands on the dashboard and said something I couldn’t hear. “What?” I shouted. “Rain,” he replied, which made no sense at all. Only it did make me think on water and how we were heading towards the Arkansas River and the long, flat stretch of road running alongside it out to Sand Springs. On a straightaway like that, the Cadillac would catch us in no time. So I banked hard right at the next street and accelerated, near bouncing out of my seat as we crossed the Frisco tracks.

The Cadillac stuck tight.

Then a whistle sounded loud in my ears and Joseph said “rain” again, only that time I heard the t in front of it and understood he’d been saying “train” all along. For there was a train just ahead of us on the Katy tracks, coming fast.

I knew I couldn’t turn right because of the gun battle, or left because the Cadillac would catch us. And backwards? Well, that was no option at all.

The Cadillac was gaining. The train whistle shrieked louder. Joseph’s hand was in front of my face, pointing to the freight engine barreling towards us on our left. “STOP!” he screamed. “STOP!”

Only I didn’t. I mashed the throttle lever down, and gasoline flowed wide open into the truck’s gullet as we barreled towards that oncoming train. And its light shone blinding white into my window, and the roar of its whistle rattled my heart in its cage. Our front wheels hit the tracks, and we were in the air.

Then we were plunging forward, crashing nose-first into the ground. The rear tires hit after, hard enough so the truck bounced up and down as train cars thundered behind us in a fury of screaming metal and brakes. I eased the throttle back. Joseph slumped on the bench beside me.

“You’re crazy, Will,” he whispered. There was fear in his voice, but admiration, too.

I clenched my right hand into a fist and opened it wide, freeing up the muscles that had locked down on the steering wheel. Did the same with my left. And there was no denying the truth in what Joseph had said.

“Nice evening for a drive,” I said, two blocks later.

Joseph smiled, which made me smile, too. And it was good that we didn’t have a clue what lay ahead of us. Elsewise we might well have stayed a northward course, driving until our gas was gone and the Oklahoma state line was nothing but a ghost in the dust behind us.

The first family we saw fleeing Greenwood was on foot: two children, a man, a woman with a babe clutched tight to her chest. The man hunched forward, struggling under the weight of a lumpy, flower-embroidered sack. It was a tablecloth, loaded up, I supposed, with the family’s silverware. China. Pictures. Things they’d worked hard for. Things meant to be handed down.

More came after them.

“Where are they all going?” I asked Joseph.

“Into the hills,” he replied.

Some drove. Most walked. A few pedaled bicycles. There were children, too—so many children. And old women and old men and everything in between, struggling under the weight of their belongings and their situation. I thought about the Brightwaters, huddled together in the dark of Angelina’s quarters, and wondered if Freddy had stopped crying over his dog.

Then Joseph was pointing to a figure ahead of us, telling me to stop. “I know him,” he said. “Please.”

The young man had an ancient musket slung over his shoulder, so rusty I doubted it had been fired since the battle at Gettysburg. Even so, he shrugged it off into his hands as we drew near.

“Gideon?” Joseph called out. “Gideon Wright, it’s me, Joseph Goodhope.” The musket’s muzzle dropped, and Gideon squinted against the headlamps as he walked to the passenger side. Then he must have seen my pale skin in the moonlight, for he backed up a step and raised the musket high.

“It’s all right,” Joseph said. “Will’s helping me.”

Gideon took a step closer, face dark with suspicion, saying, “Why?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Joseph said.

“Why are you helping him?” Gideon asked me direct. And though I wasn’t exactly sure, his rusty musket inspired me to come up with an answer quick.

“Because of Ruby,” I said.

At that, the musket dropped and Gideon scowled even better than Joseph could, saying, “That girl’s like a skeeter bite on the ass!” He stared at me hard, and I looked from him to Joseph and back again until suddenly the three of us were laughing. Nervous and quiet, but laughing nonetheless. Then Gideon slung the musket over his shoulder and leaned against Joseph’s door, tapping a finger on the metal. He told us there was a line of armed colored men at the southern edge of the Negro quarter, fighting to keep bands of renegade whites out of colored neighborhoods. “There was some fighting down at the Frisco tracks earlier,” he said. “But it’s been pretty quiet for a while now.”

“Then why’re you leaving?” Joseph asked. Gideon said how his ma had gone up to stay with her sister in Claremore earlier that day, and it didn’t seem worth risking a belly full of lead just to stick around and see what would happen. “Plenty of folks took off already,” he said. “But there’s others staying, thinking what happened at the courthouse was just a misunderstanding. They’re locked in their houses now, praying for sunrise to put things right.”

I could tell by the way he said it that Gideon considered those people fools. Far as I was concerned, he was right; I’d seen the hate in Vernon’s eyes and heard the evil in his voice at the shop. For men like him, the old normal wasn’t an option anymore.

Then Joseph asked had Gideon seen Ruby or his ma, and Gideon’s face pinched up.

“I thought you knew,” he said.

Joseph stiffened. Said, “Knew what?”

“Well… that they took her,” Gideon replied.

Then Joseph opened the door of the truck so hard it pushed Gideon back. And he grabbed Gideon’s collar and yanked him up and shook him, shouting, “What do you mean, they took her?”

Gideon kept calm. “Three white men. They found your ma looking for Ruby down along Archer and they took her. Leastways, that’s what I heard.”

Joseph let go. Whispered, “Where?”

Gideon said he wasn’t sure, but word had got round they were holding Negro prisoners in Convention Hall. Then Joseph turned even quieter, asking had they hurt her. Gideon looked at the ground.

“Well, did they?” Joseph demanded.

And Gideon looked sorry as could be, saying, “She was alive. That’s all I know.”

I leaned over towards the passenger side, saying Joseph’s name loud enough for him to hear. He looked at me, all dull and numb. Then Gideon put his hand on Joseph’s shoulder and said he was sorry.

“We have to find Ruby now,” I said, strong as I dared. Joseph nodded and got in the truck, and Gideon turned north and started walking.

“Eliza Clark turned me down for prom so she could go with Gideon,” Joseph said as we pulled away. “It’s tomorrow, you know. She was supposed to be with the decorating committee at the Stradford Hotel ballroom tonight, getting things ready. She was so excited.”

I tried saying I was sorry, and not just for the Booker T. Washington prom that seemed unlikely to occur. But I had to stop and clear my throat and try again. The second time it came out right.

“Do you think they got Ruby, too?” Joseph said by way of a response.

I had no answer for that. Joseph looked out the window and didn’t seem to notice.

“Won’t be any colored folk dancing in Tulsa tomorrow night,” he said. Then he swiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve and let me drive on.