He twisted it behind his back.
The handcuff closed.
Then the other wrist.
Click.
Click.
Ethan stood handcuffed against the Mercedes his mother had given him for graduating from high school.
Sweat ran down his temples.
His shoulders were already beginning to ache.
“Please,” he said. “Just call my mom.”
Miller leaned close to his ear.
“You keep talking and I’ll add resisting arrest. Then we’ll see how polite you are after a night in a cell.”
The crowd had grown.
Nearly twenty people now watched from the parking lot and roadside.
Some had stopped after seeing the police lights.
Others had walked over from nearby businesses.
A mother pulled her small child closer.
An elderly man with a cane slowly shook his head.
No one intervened.
Then, near the air station, a young man wearing a red sweatshirt quietly took out his phone.
He did not announce what he was doing.
He simply pressed record.
Then he began livestreaming.
Four people joined.
Then twelve.
Then thirty.
Within ninety seconds, more than sixty people were watching.
Hayes noticed.
He nudged Miller.
“Sarge. Guy’s filming.”
Miller glanced toward the phone.
“Good.”
Then he raised his voice.
“Let the whole world watch. I’m doing my job. Protecting this community from exactly this kind of thing.”
He pointed at Ethan as if Ethan were not a human being at all.
An elderly woman near pump two finally spoke.
She wore a floral dress.
Her gray hair was pulled back.
Her voice was thin, but steady.
“That boy didn’t do anything. I watched from the beginning. He bought water and came outside. That’s all.”
Miller never looked at her.
“Ma’am, this is a police matter. Step back.”
She did not step farther away.
But she did not move closer, either.
She stood clutching her purse, lips pressed tight.
Her eyes were wet.
Ethan remained still beneath the afternoon sun.
Inside his car, his miniature diploma moved gently from the rearview mirror.
He closed his eyes.
Mom.
Please hurry.
Miller returned to the patrol car, opened the rear door, and pointed inside.
“Get in.”
Ethan looked at the back seat.
Cracked vinyl.
Steel mesh.
A cage.
“Sir, am I under arrest?”
“You’re being transported for questioning. Get inside before I put you inside.”
With his hands cuffed behind him, Ethan turned sideways and lowered himself into the car.
His shoulder struck the doorframe.
The seat was so hot he could feel it through his jeans.
Hayes slammed the door.
The sound felt final.
Inside the patrol car, the air was stale and heavy.
The windows did not open.