The room is dimly lit and smells strongly of camphor. There are smoothed cement walls and a dusty floor. I face the large window, that looks into another room, as small and discomforting as this one.

"Good evening London! So good to see you again. How's that shoulder?"

"Hi! It's good, I'm good." I swallow nervously and smile. I look away quickly in case it looks insincere.

Inspector Johnson walks in and closes the door. He looks bright and chipper. He sounded the same on the phone when he asked me to come down to the gendarmerie headquarters for "some good news."

"So I'll cut straight to the chase. I'm sure you must be really tired from organizing your show. Talk of the town. I should congratulate you!"

"It wasn't just me. A lot—like a lot—of people, worked to bring it together." I feel a little nervous. My gut is telling me something is wrong. "It got a bit out of hand too, you know?"

"I thought it went great. You're in the show business. If you don't tell a more sensational story, someone else will. Take the compliment." He laughs. "Come on. Take a seat."

He pulls out one of the stiff, metal chairs placed around a small table in the center of the room. Sitting down opposite me, he places a file, that I hadn't noticed, on the table.

I shift uncomfortably. "You were going to tell me the news?"

"Ah yes! We found your shooter. Look at this." He slides the file towards me. Realizing that it's a paper file makes me more nervous. Who documents on paper if they want the records to last? "These are the five men, we have narrowed it down to. We are certain it's one of them. I'll bring them out in a line up behind that mirror. Hopefully, you'll be able to recognize him."

I reflexively nod at him. He gets up, grabs a remote placed on the windowpane, and tests the small buzzer on it. He then, speaks into his earpiece to call the men in. I turn my attention back to the file. There are mugshots of five people and a sheet with information regarding their arrest and search. They were reportedly found in possession of a gun of the same make as the one used by the shooter.

They don't exactly resemble one another. They all have brown hair and dark eyes, but barely anything else is in common among these men. 

I keep scanning their faces to look for something familiar, only turning at the sound of Johnson's voice. The men walk into the adjacent room in a single file, with their hands handcuffed behind them. 

This feels unnecessary. Where would they run? Who would they fight? They look so tired and morose, I feel sorry looking at them. Their eyes drift and examine the room aimlessly. Johnson orders them to look straight ahead, and they all do as told. I feel like they can see me.

Wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, I rise to stand next to Johnson.

"Uh—I just—I have a feeling that he was blonde," I say, summing up all the courage I have. I was certain he was blonde.

"People can colour their hair, London. We don't go based on that." He responds and points towards them to redirect my attention.

I swallow hard. My mouth was so dry.

Who was it? The first one was too buff and his hair was thinning near the top. I remember the shooter being leaner and that he had curlier hair. The second and third were too short. I stopped and carefully examined the fourth one. Sharp jaw, angry eyes. It could be him. But his mouth was small, his hands too delicate. Close but not him. The last one looked like he was ill. He seemed like a child in his baggy jail uniform. It couldn't be him.

"So?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think it's any of them."

"Really?" he asks, sounding surprised. He comes to stand right beside me. "What about the middle one? Doesn't he look like him?"

I'm a little taken aback by his question. I look at him to see if he's embarrassed by his slip. I imagine he would start to apologize for accidentally leading me but Johnson is unphased. He cocks an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to answer his question.

The room is suffocating and silent. I wish the air conditioner rumbled more, the way it did in old government buildings. I wish there was someone else here, fidgeting noisily in the background. I wish the soft chatter of the officers in the bullpen outside would filter in.

"No. It's not him. Are you sure about your lead? Maybe they're the wrong guys." My voice shakes.

"No. It's one of them," He asserts, confidently. He's refusing to budge.

"I"—I don't know why this is hard to say—"I don't think I recognize any of these men."

Johnson sighs deeply. He walks away and sits down on one of the chairs. "I understand," He says, stretching the word out like it was a tough piece of leather in his hands. As if he was uncoiling a belt, and I impatiently wait for it to land.

"Pick one then."

My lips part in shock as I stand there baffled. I turn to look at them and then him. Hoping that I heard him wrong.

"What?"

"Pick one." He flashes a sinister smile. "Go on. I'd go for the middle guy."

"No," I say firmly. I'm at a complete loss for words. The absurdity of the situation gives me more courage. 

It feels stupid. This couldn't be true. He can't ask me to do that.

"Now, now. That's not an option." He leans back on the chair with his legs apart. The smile never leaves his lips.

"Yes. Yes, it is." I shake my head. My heart is racing. "I'm leaving. I don't have to do this. I don't have to give you a statement." I start moving towards the door.

"But then you won't like what happens next," He says in a condescending tone of voice.

That stops me in my tracks. I stare at him, waiting for him to continue. He gestures with his hand and asks me to sit down. My thoughts are so scattered, I move without thinking.

"You see." He leans closer, placing his elbows on the table between us. "The second you walk out of that room, I am going to get an arrest warrant for your friend Dakota."

An ugly silence follows. I stare at him for a while and then at the clueless men behind the mirror. This feels surreal. I can feel the urge to walk out that door—back into a room with lights and banter—deep in my bones. 

But I don't move. I sit, staring down at the prints that my boots are leaving on the dusty floor.

"For what?" I finally say something.

"You know better than anyone that she illegally packed medicines at the Silver Valley donation drive. You can't just smuggle drugs into a detainment center." He shrugs. "She'll get her medical license suspended. Maybe two or three years at camp. Who knows?"

"Why?"

"Because you won't give me a guy, London! That's all I want. Pick one," He says matter-of-factly.

I feel like a child being picked on. A wave of helplessness floods me. I turn my face away and blink back tears. 

What have I gotten myself into? Should I pick someone? Dakota does a lot of good. She treats refugees and moves from province to province to help people on the fringe. She shouldn't go to prison or get her license suspended. God, what am I even thinking about? Sending away an innocent man for multiple criminal charges in exchange for someone else isn't right.

I turn to look at the men again. Johnson presses the buzzer in his hand and brings the remote close to his mouth. "Take a stance and put your arms forward like you're holding a gun."

The men, in their confused state, try to pose as if they're about to shoot the mirror. Now, the fourth one looks nothing like my shooter. 

My breath hitches in my throat. I remember him better. 

His blonde hair, his wide mouth, his hands. He was screaming something. I never really caught it. The dust, the tension, the sun in my eye. And Dakota, clutching my hand, trying to guide me through the crowd.

I can't do this. I can't sacrifice an innocent man. I barely know her but I know she would never want me to do that.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I just want a conviction so I can be done with—"

"No. Why are you doing this to me?"

"What do you mean?" he chuckles. "You're the only one whose statement is going to sell."

"You're lying. If you're doing this because you think I'm with them, then let me tell you I'm not. I don't know Dakota. I met her at the donation. I've barely ever talked to her. I have nothing to do with the ONA." I explain. My breathing is growing more uneven as I find myself equally angry and terrified.

Johnson smiles knowingly. It's infuriating. "Then why don't you just leave?"

I purse my lips in frustration. "I don't think I should talk to you without a lawyer." I shake my head; my eyes prick with tears. "This is so wrong. I want a lawyer."

"You're just here to give your statement. Why do you want a lawyer?"

"Because you have some issue with me, and I have no idea why! I don't know anyone from the ONA. They don't know me. Frankly speaking, I'm not leaving this room and I'm not saying another word until I have my lawyer here."

Johnson laughs. It's a loud hearty laugh, and it makes me jump in my seat.

"Oh well. You're in luck, your beloved is here." He sings.

"What."

I hear the door slide open behind me. An officer walks in and salutes. Following close behind is Emir. He has his eyes trained on Johnson.

"Nice to see you here, Councilman. How can I help you?" Johnson smiles widely.

"Why don't you go fuck yourself, officer?" Emir snaps. I stare at him in shock, but Johnson only chuckles.

"He swears this much in bed too?" he turns and asks me. I am left completely speechless. What is happening?

"Don't answer that," Emir quickly responds as if I had any clue how to. "She's not going to be talking to you at all until she's spoken to her lawyer."

"Oh." Johnson feigns an offended expression. "Is he your counsel, London?"

I want to say "no." I want to tell Johnson that I don't know him. I want to cut any strings tying me to him, but I think he deserves to know that his friend is at risk. 

I nod.

"Then, you can have the room," Johnson says and leaves with a smug smile on his face. The door swiftly shuts behind him.

I bury my face in my hands and exhale loudly. I can feel Emir sit down on the other end. He gently taps his knuckle against the table to get my attention. Exhausted, I look up at him. Some spots dance in my vision, and it readjusts slowly.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his eyes searching my face.

I don't know how to answer that, so I impatiently blurt out, "They're going to arrest Dakota." His expression hardens. He takes a glance at the men behind the mirror and then nods.

"When?"

"I don't know. He said if I walked out without giving him a name, he'd arrest her. He wanted me to frame one of these men. I"— I pause to gather my thoughts—"I'll start right from the beginning."

"You don't need to. So you didn't give them a name?"

I shake my head.

"Good. We need to leave right now," He says with an urgent strain in his voice. The chair makes a harsh squeak against the floor as he stands up.

"No! What?" I ask incredulously, turning in my seat to face him as he walks towards the door. "Councilman, we can't leave. They'll arrest her!"

"You want to send one of them in her place?" he asks, with a grave expression. I can't respond. 

He kneels in front of my chair and his hand grabs its metal rim, close to my thigh. The dim lamplight pools into his deep brown eyes like honey on rocks as he tilts his head up slightly, to look at my face. 

"Well, do you?" he repeats. I hold his gaze, tongue-tied and torn.

He breaks the silence.

"What makes you think they'd keep their promise and not arrest her anyway? When they have enough evidence against her and barely any trouble getting a warrant, what makes you think that they aren't arresting her as we speak?"

I feel my stomach drop. Without thinking, I clasp his hand with my own and squeeze it.

It's clear now. My life, as I once knew it, is over. Something else entirely is about to begin. 

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