Tantrum Has a Voice

Tantrum ② · A Voice

[Part ① · Twelve Dollars an Hour]

You were woken by the blare of sirens. The air stank of sulfur, and the sudden turn of events left you inexplicably tense.

It wasn't fully light yet—

—the billboard on the office building next door was right above you. You could see it.

[Create a Beautiful New Life with Miami]

The shrill, piercing sound made your heart race. That was right.

Once, you'd relied on it to drive criminals away, break suspects' will to fight, and strike fear into the hearts of lawbreakers.

Later, when you were squatting in a public housing complex with a syringe in your pocket, you knew what it meant when you heard that sound—you had to leave.

The people in the complex would complain about you. You couldn't find a suitable place to live, not even a small apartment. You wandered around in public, found a random set of steps, found somewhere to sit, and then sank into a sweet dream.

Until the sirens sounded and you understood that sense of security no longer belonged to you.

When questioned, you patiently explained over and over that you used to be a state trooper. You'd once believed you could recover at rehab and get your life back on track. But why?

Why had this become legal and acceptable in America? Why did it all seem to happen so naturally?

Ben Rickert, you were dying.

But congratulations—you'd made it through another day. For now, you'd beaten the craving.

"Hey! You there!" A bomb-sniffing dog clambered up to the rooftop, with an officer right behind it—

—the Florida cop didn't reach for his gun when he first saw you.

"What's going on, officer?" You knew the drill and immediately put your hands where he could