"Ya know, that's Kenny's problem. I don't have to go around shovelin' his shit," said Dara, grinning from behind her desk.

"Captain, Dara, please. I need your help. We need your help."

Ever since she was a little girl, Dara Lynch had a tic: whenever she was nervous, a smile would always creep on her face. It was something unavoidable; a defense mechanism devised by a mischievous child in order to avoid getting in trouble for some prank or another. As she grew, so did her smile, turning her sweet freckled face into a wicked grin, accompanied by a set of jagged, yellow teeth, courtesy of her habit of chewing ice cubes when bored.

To her, Graham had always been a source of anguish and headache. He was a good soldier, always willing to help, and a blindly obedient person too, but sometimes, he missed the big picture. More than once he had stepped on the Lynch family's toes without meaning to. This was one such time.

"Look. Ya come 'ere, demandin' that I throw ya a hand, but this is your problem. Ya were the one that brought that broad here. Ya deal with it," she said, tapping her index finger on the table for emphasis.

"I get it, but," implored Graham, leaning forward on his seat and putting his hands together in a plea, "this is gonna fuck us in the ass if we don't fix it."

"Us?" mocked Dara, laughing in an ironic, high-pitched voice. "Us? There ain't no 'us' here. Lemme be clear."

Dara stood up, taking a seat on the desk right in front of Graham. There was no subtlety in that move. She wanted to stare him down with all her power.

"The reason I don't go around haulin' contraband is that I'm the boss. The reason you're a flyin' monkey for whatever Kenny wants to do is because you're a grunt. Ya get busted so that we, the head honchos, don't have to. If I decide to play 'hide the trafficked human' with you, I can get busted. I don't wanna get busted. That's gonna fuck us."

Graham shrank in his seat under the weight of Dara's ever-present grin. He couldn't even find a retort. She was absolutely right. At the end of the day, he was her employee.

"So... What should I do?" he asked. For once, Graham was lost on what to do. He now realized that his bright and cheery day was overshadowed by the great cloud of his incompetence. Before he sat a fierce lioness that wouldn't hesitate to throw him under the bus if it meant saving her skin. Her earlier praise meant nothing, merely a bone thrown to keep him content like the mutt he was.

Dara patted him on the head playfully. "Cheer up, Dunne. Why don't ya call Kenny? Or that dumbo that works for him? Donnie? Jimmy?"

Of course! Graham thought. Frankie could help. He stood up quickly, bolting towards the door, but stopped in his tracks before opening the door.

"Thing is, how do I get her out? Marvin already booked her. We can't just waltz her out of here."

"I'll deal with Old Man Winter. You run off now. I don't wanna hear any more of this, got it? I was starting to like ya. Don't fuck it up."

Graham nodded, bolting out of the room. He ran to the bathroom, locking himself in a booth to compose himself. Everything fell on him at once. Emotions swirled inside of him like a whirlwind, pushing him to the edge. He couldn't cry, no matter how much he tried to. It felt like a monster trying to burst out of his chest. He was a disappointment to all the women in his life. His ex-wife, Anna, his boss. Nothing ever went right.

How much time had passed? Graham wasn't sure, but by the time he came out, the earlier hustle of the precinct had died down a notch, with a few officers filling out paperwork or chatting among themselves over a cup of cheap coffee.

He took out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he saw Frankie's name pop up. He was about to press the call button when he became oddly aware that he was surrounded by curious ears. He ran to his car in hopes of getting a little more privacy.

The damp basement parking lot echoed with every step he took. Every few steps he turned his head around. He had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him from somewhere. Maybe it was the way his footsteps echoed against the gray walls, or perhaps was the fact that Marvin seemed to be following him, given the fact that he was waddling at full elderly speed towards Graham.

"Marvin, what's wrong?"

"What? Is the sight of me a harbinger of bad news? Do I look that dreadful?"

He did, but Graham did not dare to say it to his face. "No, but-"

"Did it occur to you that I might bring good news for you?"

"I'm sorry, Marvin. I'm on edge right now. What good news do you have?"

"I don't have good news," he said, casting his eyes apologetically toward the ground.

"But you said-"

"I said that I might be capable of bringing good news, not that I bring them right now."

Graham sighed, running a hand through his head in defeat. He didn't have time to deal with him.

"Can it wait? I have to talk to someone."

Turning around to enter his car, Graham froze as he felt his hand being gripped with surprising force. Marvin squared against him with uncharacteristic determination. It was now twice that he had been robbed of words that day.

"You are headed to a dangerous place. You are not too late to avoid it. This is not a game. This is your life. You only get one. Spend it wisely."

Graham could only stare at him wide-eyed. He wasn't kidding. He actually tried to lecture him.

"Marvin...how-"

"I got called into the Captain's office. She told me to comply with whatever you tell me to do. I told her to shove it."

"You shouldn't have done that," Graham commented, dryly.

"And you shouldn't do what you are about to do. Please."

The way he said that last part, Graham felt a wave of love he hadn't felt in a long time. The love of a father guiding his son. A part of him was yelling to listen to the old man, to take his advice and run away. But another voice, the devil that lived in the back of his mind told him that he would never get far. The things he knew. The things he had seen. He wouldn't make it to Quincy without taking a bullet to the back of the head. He did the only sensible thing he could.

He shook his arm out of the old man's grip, before running towards his car.

"So be it," muttered Marvin, waddling back to his station.

"Ya know, dat's Kenny's shit. I ain't shovelin' his shit around," said Frankie over the phone. He was chewing on something incredibly loudly in between words. It was grinding on Graham's emotional gears.

"Yes, you will. That's your job. You are Kenny's personal shit-shovel, and you are gonna help me handle this."

Frankie went silent, only his loud chewing sounded through the receiver. After a few seconds, he answered.

"Are ya sure dat's one of the people we moved?"

"Positive. And she's a talker, too."

"It's probably just in yer head. I would've got a call from Kenny or-"

The call was suddenly interrupted.

Looking at his phone, Graham saw that it had been cut on Frankie's side. Graham tried to call him a few times, but each time, the phone dialed busy. He threw his phone onto the passenger's seat in frustration. He had to unwind somehow.

With a flick of the wrist, the engine came alive, sending vibrations along the whole frame of the cruiser. Graham drove aimlessly, hearing the dispatcher call signs over the radio. The disembodied voice was soothing for him, almost nurturing. The drilling ringtone of his cheap cellphone broke the peace he had somehow attained.

"Frankie. Talk to me."

"Shit, Gra'am, ya right. Dat was Kenny. The employers called. A girl ran away from 'em."

"So? What do we do now?"

"Kenny said to find 'and kill. She's found, now we gotta make her go away."

It took almost all his will not to brake in the middle of the road. He had to find a sidewalk and start his sirens for him to compose.

"Hey! Frankie. Listen to me. You know me. I haven't killed anybody, ever. Can't we just give her back?!"

Frankie boomed a dry chortle, too loud for someone on the phone. "She ain't a pet. She knows a lot. Orders are to whack 'er."

"I can't-I can't do it. I'm not. I won't."

Graham placed his arm on the steering wheel. His hand was plastered against his face, gripping for some sanity in all of this mess. Squeamish was an understatement for how he was feeling. Nauseous was a more fitting word. Jobs like that weren't his forte. He was an errand boy, or a delivery-man, or a strongman, but never the executioner.

"Shit, we don't have time fo' dis. Pick me up, ASAP!"

Graham couldn't even retort, Frankie ended the call on the spot. He allowed himself to take three deep breaths before getting back on the road. The more he thought about it, the worse it was going to be for him, so he decided to do the best he knew how to do: not think about it. Not think about anything if he could. And surprisingly, it worked for the few minutes it took him to pull into Chestnut Flats, waiting for Frankie.

A sharp whistle announced his arrival, with the man himself making circles around the car, admiring its handiwork.

"Dat's a beauty, she is," said Frankie, playfully kicking one of the tires.

"Stop screwing around and get in."

Frankie spat on the floor, slipping into the passenger's seat. He looked at the back seats in all their emptiness.

"Hey, where's the woman at?" he asked.

"Back at the station, why?"

"Shit! Why the hell didn't you bring 'er with ya?!"

"You didn't tell me to!"

"Dat was obvious! Shit, Gra'am. Hit the gas."

Frankie spent the whole time back to the station flicking his Zippo open, filling the silence between them with the clanking metal noise. He wouldn't even look at Graham. Frankie was the type to hold a grudge over the smallest of things. He was actually glad that Frankie always had a soft spot for him, but for now, his mood would only make the situation harder.

Right before arriving at the precinct, Frankie slapped Graham's arm for attention.

"Lemme outt here," he commanded.

"Why? We are almost there."

For the first time since the ride began, Frankie pinned his dimwitted gaze on Graham. "'Cuz it would look weird if I'm prancin' around in there like I own the place. You're supposed to be the smart one."

Graham wanted to slap himself in the face. This day was disappointing enough without having his intelligence questioned by Frankie of all people. He let Frankie out before taking the corner near the precinct.

He made his way through the narrow and cold hallway overlooking the cells until he arrived at Marvin's desk. The man himself was busy solving a crossword, chewing on the eraser end of his pencil.

"Marvin," said Graham, placing his hands on the desk.

Marvin moved his eyes to meet Graham's. Behind them, Graham could see pity and sorrow.

With silence, he stood up, beckoning Graham to follow him to the cells. The air was stilted and stale, with an almost bitter taste to it. Only the scraping shoes of both of the men could be heard in the hallway. The woman was still in the corner of the room, curled into a ball with a puddle of urine soiling the concrete floor.

Taking a big metal key out of his pocket, Marvin unlocked the iron bar door to the cell, but did not open it; instead, he took a step back, inviting Graham to open it.

Graham gripped the door before Marvin's clammy hands were placed on top of his own.

"Marvin, please, don't-"

"You are in front of a crossroad," Marvin interrupted, "one that leads to the rest of your life. Two paths have been laid in front of you, and neither one is easy. If you open that door, you will take the wide path, a path that you are familiar with, and one many before you have walked on. At the end of that path, the only thing that awaits you is pain and sorrow. If you choose not to open that door, you will go through the narrow path. A rocky pass that will betray you at every corner, one that will leave you bloody and sore, but at the end, salvation awaits. This is your last warning. Choose wisely."

Graham couldn't comprehend Marvin's behavior. Was he trying to play God with him? Something behind those eyes was pleading with him, to stop, to take the narrow path.

But he had already made up his mind. His answer came in the form of the creaking sound of the cell opening.

It took Graham a bit of time to cuff the wailing woman, earning a few scratches in the process. Through all of that kerfuffle, Marvin stood solemnly by the door, staring, judging.

Pushing the woman out, Graham began to walk back to the car, but not before Marvin uttered his final words.

"You have made your choice, and with it, you've also made mine. I hope you can forgive me."

ONE DAY AFTER THE SECOND DISASTER