A Tangled Mercy

by Joy Jordan-Lake

Kate tilted her head, hearing something behind or beside what he’d said, something else tucked there in the scallop of sound.

“When we see the video, we see the truth: Mr. Scott was shot from behind. Fell to the ground. Died with his face in the dust.” His voice slowed here, enunciating each word as he faced the camera directly. “Was gunned down like game.” “Like . . . ?” she echoed. “Game,” he returned calmly. “An officer of the law shot an unarmed black man in the back—not once but several times—as the man ran away. Then, without checking to see if he was alive, without attempting to resuscitate him, without calling for medics, the officer handcuffed Mr. Scott.” The clergyman faced her again. “Gunned down. Like game.”

Though this church in which we stand is of historic significance, it is not a museum, but continues to be a place that works in the minds and hearts of people toward change.”

“I like things that sound alltime the same,” said the boy. “A beat you can count on. Like hammers. And waves. And heartbeats. Only . . . only you can’t always count on the heartbeats, can you?” His head fell against her side.