Two guards came out first, carrying short-barreled shotguns.

Ethan came next.

He was chained to three other men, his ankles bound by a short length of iron.

He wore a bright orange jumpsuit with the letters DOC printed on the back.

His hair was cut short, almost to the scalp.

He kept his head down, watching his shoes as he shuffled forward on the concrete.

He looked smaller than he had in the courtroom.

The expensive suits and the confidence had been stripped away, leaving only a thin, pale man.

As he reached the steps of the bus, he looked up.

He saw me standing by the fence.

His face did not change.

There was no anger left in his eyes, only a dull, flat stare.

A guard tapped his shoulder with a black baton.

“Move it, Brooks,” the guard said.

Ethan lifted his leg and climbed the high metal steps into the bus.

The chains clinked against the steel riser.

Then came Margaret.

She was at the end of the line, moving slowly.

She had a gray blanket wrapped around her shoulders to keep out the wind.