"You okay?" Cruz handed him a beer, opened one of her own.

"You know what?" He smiled at her. "I think I am."

She smiled back, took his hand. They stood for a moment, then she glanced at her watch. "It's time."

They took the backstairs up to the bedroom where they'd almost made love. The memory hit them both at the same time, funny and awkward and sweet. Cruz turned on the television, tuned it to local news.

Whoever had sent the documents to the media had poured blood in the water. The reporters were smiling sharks, savaging anyone who talked to them. James Donlan squirmed, his politician's smile faltering as he repeated over and over that he couldn't discuss details, that a full investigation was pending. The mayor's press secretary read a brief statement promising consequences of the highest order. Footage of Kent's mansion played, the boxy lines cracking under the weight of fire, smoke punching out windows, smoke knocking down walls. There was a photo of Adam Kent in a tuxedo, and though the anchor stopped short of directly accusing him, she did say recent evidence suggested he may have been involved.

Cruz said, "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," and he laughed.

The anchor continued. New documents implicated Alderman Eddie Owens in the scheme. The mayor was said to be personally disappointed. There was footage of the alderman with his hands in front of his face, scurrying into a black Towncar. Jason wondered if it was the same one.

The image cut to the alderman's right-hand, Daryl Thomas, the man they'd met at Washington's party. He stood behind a podium giving some sort of a speech, distancing himself and the rest of the administration from the alderman's actions.

Cruz shook her head.

"What?"

"I don't know. There's just something so familiar about that guy."

The anchor said that while formal elections would be scheduled, Daryl Thomas would be taking over aldermanic duties in the meantime. The anchor riffed on Thomas's qualifications: BA from Chicago, MBA from Northwestern, ten years in local politics. Strong connections to industry and big business. Respected in the community.

The screen kicked back to Thomas talking, his arms out.

"This is the kind of moment that defines a city. We can either collapse under the weight of scandal, or we can pull together and rise above it. But what we can never do is forget. Just as the burnt child fears the fire, so must we be ever vigilant against corruption and cronyism…"

There was more, but Jason didn't hear it. He and Cruz were too busy staring at each other with their mouths open.

The evening was hot, and the smell of exhaust lay heavy on the porch. Jason set his hands on the railing and leaned against it. Stared across to the abandoned lot, the tall grass painted ocher by the setting sun. In the middle of it, Billy sat on the carousel. A recovering gangbanger pushed it for him, the metal squeaking and grinding, and Jason could hear laughter from here.

"How you holding up?" Ronald eased the screen door shut behind him.

"People keep asking me that." He shook his head. "Okay, I guess."

Ronald nodded. They stood and looked at the evening. A car rolled by, a low-slung custom Mustang. Bass rattled the windows. Two men sat inside, nodding slowly to the beat. They wore blue bandannas and hard expressions, hitting Jason with their best thousand-yard stares. He met their eyes, feeling tired inside. Worn down.

"You know what started this whole thing?"

Ronald nodded. "That woman cop, Cruz, she told me."

"A power play. That's all. The man in the number two seat wanted to move up, so he scraped together a file on his boss's sins, and sent it to someone else so his hands stayed clean."

"Maybe he just wanted to stop something he saw goin' on."

"Nah. If that was all, why not blow the whistle himself?" Jason shook his head. "Funny thing is, I saw all this before. I saw it in Afghanistan and I saw it in Iraq. Everybody fighting to cut out their little piece of the pie. Their politicians, our politicians. Contractors and CEOs, mullahs and warlords and generals. Sometimes they did it with a document, sometimes with a bullet. But win or lose, the people playing the game never got hurt like the regular people in the middle."

Ronald shrugged. "Don't know about Iraq, but that sounds 'bout right for Chicago."

"I just…" Jason straightened, held his arms out. "I don't know. I just wonder what the point is. Of everything we've done. Taking down Kent and the alderman. It's been three days, and already there's a new alderman that's smarter and more ruthless. And there's probably a new Kent out there, too. So what was the point?"

Ronald turned, leaned against the railing. Patted his pockets, found two cigars. He handed one to Jason, bit the end off his own. "Remember the other night? That story Dr. Matthews told?"

"The Lantern Bearers." Jason nodded.

"He told that story before, lots of times. Truth is, I was kind of like you. Not sure I really got the point, you know, dying to light a lighthouse." He fired his cigar, spat a scrap of tobacco. "Now, though, I think maybe Dr. Matthews was saying that you can't get rid of the darkness. I mean, it's darkness, right? It's gonna fall. But still, you fight against it." He turned, gestured with his cigar. "Besides, even if it ends, ain't the day something to see?"

Jason snapped a match, held it to the end of his cigar, then took a drag and blew smoke into the evening air. The sky burned crimson and yellow. Behind him he could hear the noise of the memorial, the buzz of talk. The somber phase had passed, and now there was laughter and the clink of glasses. Someone had changed the music, soul with a good backbeat. He glanced through the screen, saw Cruz on the impromptu dance floor. Their eyes locked, and her lips formed a slow, sweet smile full of promise. They stared for what seemed like a long time before she winked and returned to swaying with the Oscar kid.

Jason raised himself up on tip-toes and breathed the night air, and with every breath it was as though he were letting something go. As if the Worm that had been eating him alive had gone to dust, and he was letting it out one exhale at a time. He had the feeling that when it was gone, this beast of guilt and shame and fear that had possessed him, when it had abandoned his chest for good, it would leave room for something else.

He didn't know what, exactly.

But he looked forward to finding out.

Author's Note

"Crenwood" doesn't exist.

In the year I spent researching and writing this book, I frequently wrestled with whether or not to use an actual neighborhood. I didn't need to make one up; poverty, gangs, and violence are very real problems, and while Crenwood is imaginary, it is closely based on a particular South Side area. However, in the end, I decided to rename it out of respect for the people who live there.

Also, because this is a novel rather than a sociological study, I significantly simplified the number and size of gangs. While a story must revolve around a small group of characters, real gangs have no such limitation. If you ever want to blow your hair back, try Googling "MS-13." If we don't make some changes as a society, and I mean quick, we're in for a world of hurt.

For narrative reasons it is sometimes necessary to create bad cops, and the rules of human nature assure that they occasionally exist in life, too. But in my experience, the vast majority of police are good people working a hard job, and getting paid too little for it.

Finally, as Winston Churchill said, "We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm." No matter how we feel about the war, the administration, or the policy, we owe our soldiers a debt of gratitude.