“Two hours,” Marcus said. “Courtroom four. If you don’t show up with something real, I’m letting the marshals take you in.”

The line went dead.

I looked at Aaron, whose face was pale against the dark leather of the headrest.

“We aren’t going to the farm yet,” I said, turning the wheel toward the interstate. “We’re going to court.”

The E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse was cold and smelled of damp wool and floor wax.

The rain had started in earnest, smearing the view of the Capitol dome through the high windows.

We walked through the security metal detectors, Aaron’s boots squeaking loudly on the marble tiles.

In the hallway outside Courtroom Four, my family was already waiting.

My mother stood beside Cassandra and her father, Colonel Whitaker.

The Colonel looked hollowed out, but he still stood upright in his tailored gray suit.

My brother, Ethan, stood several feet away from them, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at the floor.

When he saw me approach, he took a step forward, but our mother grabbed his sleeve.