Around a bonfire pit behind Manny’s that night, we filled Channing in on everything. When I told him we needed to talk, he’d said the crowd would be less bloodthirsty in Fallen Crest than at his own bar.
“He called you troubled?” Channing asked, his nostrils flaring.
Cross, Jordan, and Zellman sat with me, and three of Channing’s own crew had come: Chad, Moose, and Congo.
I nodded. The words weren’t coming. I didn’t feel like speaking.
“They want all crews to do this program?”
I stopped interacting. It burned a hole each time I had to remember.
Cross sat on top of a picnic table beside me. “All crews. That’s what she said.”
Channing frowned, not saying anything for a moment. He shared looks with the rest of his crew before he nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Wait.” Jordan pushed up from
