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happening in the center of the large space, between two huge metal vats. Cops on one side and Trevor and his men on the other. There was a crate between them with the pink backpack placed on it.
    I made my way along the beam, quickly and quietly. I wasn't worried about the dust I dislodged, both because there was nothing I could do about it and because I hoped they'd assume it was a bird rather than an assassin spying on them from above. I transferred from the beam I was on to another that ran at ninety degrees, taking me close enough to the men that I could make out what they were saying.
    “You're failing the county, sheriff,” Trevor was saying. The sheriff scowled in response. “I'm offering you assistance.”
    “Why, Foster? Why are you so concerned with Midway all of a sudden?” Sheriff Beaks was middle-aged and it showed. He looked tired, as though the world was bearing down on him and he was barely keeping it all together.
    “Why wouldn't I care? How can you ask me something like that?” He looked at his men as though unable to comprehend the question. “The people of this town are scared and looking for help. It's our role in the community to provide that help.”
    The youngest deputy spoke up. “What we're asking is how does this line your pockets?”
    “Matt,” the sheriff said, holding his hand up to quiet the man down. He never took his eyes off Trevor. “You've got a reputation, and we're a little surprised, is all.”
    “You wound me,” Trevor said theatrically. “But let's say I'm as bad as you seem to think. Let's say all I'm interested in is myself, for the sake of argument. Well, then helping Midway is in my best interests. We're approaching a point where there will be open violence in the streets, neighbor against neighbor. Midway and Littleton will be at each other's throats and that's just bad for business.”
    Sheriff Beaks sighed, clearly not buying it. “What are you offering?”
    Trevor grinned and grabbed the backpack, fussing with the buckle as he tried to work out how to open it. He gave up after a few seconds and tore it open, betraying the strength I’d felt the night before. He reached in and took out a small plastic water bottle filled with thick amber liquid, holding it up for the cops to see.
    “And that is?” Sheriff Beaks said.
    “Ambrosia, Sheriff. And the solution to your problem, should things get out of hand.”
    “I don't get it.” The sheriff kept his hands crossed in front of him, leaving Trevor holding the offered bottle in the air between them. “I expected funding or…I don't know. Something useful.”
    “Your man knows what this is,” Trevor said, holding the bottle out to one of the other deputies. I didn't know the man's name but I recognized the expression on his face. It was the same as that of any addict seeing the substance they desperately craved.
    The sheriff saw the expression too and wasn't pleased. “So, Bill, what is it?”
    “It's like…drinking it makes you strong. Stronger than you've ever been. No pain, no distractions, just focus and power.” Bill was almost as old as the sheriff, with a bushy, drooping moustache and a lined face, but at the sight of the ambrosia he was reborn. A child on Christmas morning.
    “So it's a drug,” the sheriff said, scowling at Trevor. “It's PCP in a bottle.”
    “It's how your men keep getting taken out, Sheriff. Whoever the bad guys are, they're using this against you. I'm only trying to help even things up before someone dies.”
    “How do you know that?” the young cop, Matt, asked.
    “I assume, deputy,” Trevor said, not bothering to look at the younger man. “This is turning the tide in the cities and it looks like it's turning the tide here now, as well.”
    “But how do you know that?” Matt wasn't letting it go. “This is news to me. Anyone else know what he's talking about?” He looked around at his fellow cops. Nobody responded. I’d been living in a big city for months and