Little Brother

point. You certainly have more, shall we say, history , than the other people here. I am tempted to hold you over for trial, no matter how much bail your parents are prepared to post."
    My lawyer started to say something, but the judge silenced her with a look. He scrubbed at his eyes.
    "Do you have anything to say?"
    "I had the chance to run," I said. "Last week. Someone offered to take me away, get me out of town, help me build a new identity. Instead I stole her phone, escaped from our truck, and ran away. I turned over her phone — which had evidence about my friend, Darryl Glover, on it — to a journalist and hid out here, in town."
    "You stole a phone?"
    "I decided that I couldn't run. That I had to face justice — that my freedom wasn't worth anything if I was a wanted man, or if the city was still under the DHS. If my friends were still locked up. That freedom for me wasn't as important as a free country."
    "But you did steal a phone."
    I nodded. "I did. I plan on giving it back, if I ever find the young woman in question."
    "Well, thank you for that speech, Mr Yallow. You are a very well spoken young man." He glared at the prosecutor. "Some would say a very brave man, too. There was a certain video on the news this morning. It suggested that you had some legitimate reason to evade the authorities. In light of that, and of your little speech here, I will grant bail, but I will also ask the prosecutor to add a charge of Misdemeanor Petty Theft to the count, as regards the matter of the phone. For this, I expect another 50,000 in bail."
    He banged his gavel again, and my lawyer gave my hand a squeeze.
    He looked down at me again and re-seated his glasses. He had dandruff, there on the shoulders of his robe. A little more rained down as his glasses touched his wiry, curly hair.
    "You can go now, young man. Stay out of trouble."

    I turned to go and someone tackled me. It was Dad. He literally lifted me off my feet, hugging me so hard my ribs creaked. He hugged me the way I remembered him hugging me when I was a little boy, when he'd spin me around and around in hilarious, vomitous games of airplane that ended with him tossing me in the air and catching me and squeezing me like that, so hard it almost hurt.
    A set of softer hands pried me gently out of his arms. Mom. She held me at arm's length for a moment, searching my face for something, not saying anything, tears streaming down her face. She smiled and it turned into a sob and then she was holding me too, and Dad's arm encircled us both.
    When they let go, I managed to finally say something. "Darryl?"
    "His father met me somewhere else. He's in the hospital."
    "When can I see him?"
    "It's our next stop," Dad said. He was grim. "He doesn't —" He stopped. "They say he'll be OK," he said. His voice was choked.
    "How about Ange?"
    "Her mother took her home. She wanted to wait here for you, but..."
    I understood. I felt full of understanding now, for how all the families of all the people who'd been locked away must feel. The courtroom was full of tears and hugs, and even the bailiffs couldn't stop it.
    "Let's go see Darryl," I said. "And let me borrow your phone?"
    I called Ange on the way to the hospital where they were keeping Darryl — San Francisco General, just down the street from us — and arranged to see her after dinner. She talked in a hurried whisper. Her mom wasn't sure whether to punish her or not, but Ange didn't want to tempt fate.
    There were two state troopers in the corridor where Darryl was being held. They were holding off a legion of reporters who stood on tiptoe to see around them and get pictures. The flashes popped in our eyes like strobes, and I shook my head to clear it. My parents had brought me clean clothes and I'd changed in the back seat, but I still felt gross, even after scrubbing myself in the court-house bathrooms.
    Some of the reporters called my name. Oh yeah, that's right, I was famous now. The state troopers gave me a look, too — either they'd recognized my face or my name when the reporters called it out.
    Darryl's father met us at the door of his hospital room, speaking in a whisper too low for the reporters to hear. He was in civvies, the jeans and sweater I normally thought of him wearing, but he had his service ribbons pinned to his breast.
    "He's sleeping," he said. "He woke up a little while ago and he started crying. He couldn't stop. They gave him something to help him sleep."
    He led us in, and there was