“Gabriel.” Her voice is sharp and wakes me up like a bad nightmare.

I pull myself up to sitting, touch my cheek, and wince at the pain.

“Did…did someone hit me?” I ask, working my jaw back and forth. It doesn’t feel good. “Did a cop hit me?” I blink a few times, trying to put together the memory of what happened before I took a solid right hook to the jaw.

My mom scoffs.

“The official report says that another protester hit you, though I suppose it could’ve been a police officer. I don’t want to hear another word about that though,” she says. Her arms are folded tightly over her chest and she taps one shiny, black heel with each clipped word.

“I just—”

“I told you to stay away from her,” Mom says, then holds one hand up. “All of this could have been avoided if you just would have listened to me and stayed away from her.”

I don’t answer, because I have no defense. This is the one time my mom has ever been right as far as I’m concerned.

“Never mind, we don’t need to discuss that now. What we need to do is get you out of here. I’ve already signed all of the paperwork,” she says.

Don’t have to ask me twice to leave the white cinderblock walls and the comfort of the matching cement bench.

“Thanks, Ma,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Oh, don’t you thank me, Gabriel. The man you punched—the man you assaulted at that protest—he was a police officer.”