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said.
    “I passed out flyers.”
    Fitch shook his head. “We’re openers for the openers.”
    “Don’t make me do this.” April thrust herself between Fitch and Myles, teeth tearing at the nail of her pinkie finger.
    Fitch took her other hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

    The club fell into darkness, only the dimmest glow bleeding onto the stage and dance floor from the bar.
    Holmes was a blur in the darkness at the front of the stage, pointinga remote control at the ceiling. Behind him, an enormous square of blue light flashed on a white bedsheet suspended above the band. Then the blue light flashed to black, a sign the video was about to begin. But before the images came the sound, the speakers crackling to life with the roar of a crowd. The silent kids all around Myles looked at one another, as if they feared a mob were just outside, ready to storm the room.
    Within moments, the roar in the speakers began to ebb just slightly, the voices coalescing, changing to a chant. At least it was supposed to be a chant, but the words were so amplified, so heavy with bass, they sounded more like the grunt of industrial machines.
    After a few seconds, the black projection gave way, and at last an image appeared: a crush of bodies, protesters, mouths only slightly off sync with the chant. The camera pulled back, taking in more of the surroundings—the street, a skyscraper. Then the camera slowly panned over the front of the crowd, pressed up against a police barricade, fists in the air, shouting and pointing. On the other side, next to a dented gas canister, four riot cops stood shoulder to shoulder, rifles at the ready.
    At the lower edge of the screen, the crowd continued to swell. Against the pressure of all those people, the police barricade rocked, about to fall. One of the cops lowered his head, speaking into the radio strapped to his shoulder. The movement of his lips was firm and explosive.
    The chants intensified, thumping like drums. Now there were twice as many protesters in the crowd as before, picket signs bobbing. On the other side of the barricade, the riot cops were multiplying, too. And just when it seemed—even to Myles—that the tension on the screen was about to reach its breaking point, the girl appeared.
    The girl was maybe sixteen, and she seemed to come out of nowhere, materializing at the side of the cop with the radio. Between the cop and the girl there was just that teetering board, the flimsy barricade. The girl was skinny, bony, in jeans and a faded turquoise T-shirt. The cop threw up his palm, ordering her to stop. In response,the girl opened her arms, revealing a white daisy painted across the front of the shirt. I’m harmless, she was saying. Look.
    Again the cop gestured for her to stop. Turn around, his fingers said. Go back.
    But the girl kept coming. And when she couldn’t go any farther, she reached out over the barricade, and with a smile for all the crowd to see, she wrapped her arms around his waist. The camera zoomed in, and the screen filled with arms and badge and weapon. The cop lowered his head, as if in order to speak into the girl’s ear. They looked as though they were dancing. The speakers moaned with applause.
    Myles looked around the club. Sticks in hand, the three billiard players stood in a row facing the stage. So did the bartender. He’d even put his phone away. The two guys at the bar had raised their eyes from their beers.
    But there was still no sign of McGee.
    Up on the screen, the cop put his free hand on the girl’s shoulder, trying to pry her off.
    The girl hung on, cheek against his stomach, smile straining.
    And then the moment came: desperate and out of ideas, the cop placed his gloved hand against the girl’s chest, square on the yellow disk of the daisy. Leaning into it, with all his strength, he shoved her backward onto the pavement. The instant the girl hit the ground, the barricade fell, and before they had a chance to flee, the riot cops