The young black man stared at the wall blankly, absentmindedly alternating between tracing invisible stick figures and dragons on the cement floor with his fingertips, and listening to the two sheriffs in the other room talk. One of them, the skinny guy who had brought him in, was rambling something about a bank. Jesus, that guy could talk; when the man first woke up on the one of the cell’s rusty old cots, his back only a couple of inches from the floor, it had been to the sound of that beanpole of a sheriff telling him the story of just how big the rat he had seen on his front porch last week was. The man had barely been able to move, then, and his head still throbbed and pulsed like someone had used it for baseball practice. It even hurt to smile on account of the tiny gashes that were now scattered across his face, and the fact that he was sixty percent sure that his eye was now the size of a golf ball. When he first woke up, he had been seeing spots, and the jail cell that he had been placed in had felt claustrophobically small. Now, the man realized, he was actually in one of the largest holding cells he had ever seen the inside of. The behemoth of a drunk tank nearly covered the entire back wall of the police station, leaving him to sit like a child in a room made for giants, with his back to the wall and his knees against his chest. The iron bars of the cell were thick, and had been covered with a dark green paint, like a great geometric forest, the cracks in the floor like roots, twisting and stretching from one end of the station to the other. It made the cell seem less threatening, more calming. Maybe that was why they painted it that color, to keep whoever was inside from thinking that they were actually imprisoned. The man sighed and closed his eyes, trying not to think about all of the different ways things could go bad for a guy with his type of problem when locked up in jail. Then he heard two sets of footsteps: one quick and excited, like if shoes were tapping out Morse code, the other slower and more relaxed. He heard a tap on the bars of the cell, and opened his eyes to see the two sheriffs watching him from across the bars.

“I got a call last night after you went home, around one,” Wills told the Sheriff. “Garth was working the late shift over at Barry’s, and he said that three guys had started taggin’ each other at the bar. I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went down there myself.” Henry smiled. Andy Wills had likely avoided calling him just so that he could get himself whatever action he could find.
“So, I called you to let you know, then took the cruiser and went down to Barry’s. By the time I got there, most everybody ‘cept Garth had left for the night. This guy,” Wills pointed to the man, “was on the ground, knocked out cold.” At this point the man inside the cell, who had still not said a word, was rubbing his eyes and head, trying to jostle a memory of the evening in to his head. Deputy Wills continued.
“Garth said that the guy was on his second drink when Carl Morrison and one of his buddies, who were each on their fourth, hustled over to him and started talking to him. Garth told me he didn’t know exactly what happened after that since he was making a round bussing tables, but he heard Carl shout something, and then this guy over here punched him square in the face. And, well, after that it all kinda ‘went to s***, ’” Andy stopped, then quickly added, “Garth’s words, not mine.” Henry nodded, and looked at the man in the cell, wondering why he hadn’t said something. Andy’s story was not exactly doing wonders for the guy.
“What else?”
“Well, after knocking this guy around a bit, Carl and his friend threw some money on the counter and shuffled out the bar real quick, and Garth locked up for the night. Garth also helped me put the beaten guy in the cruiser. I brought him to the station, and he woke up about an hour later in the cell. He banged on the bars a little, pretended to choke on something, and hasn’t said a word since. I called Doc Edwards, and he said he’d see him at noon today about his face. I would’ve let him out before you got here, figured he just needed to sleep his whiskey off, but he wouldn’t tell me a damn thing about his side. So I figured I’d wait for you.” Henry nodded again, then turned to face the cell bars.
“Anything to add?” the sheriff asked the beaten man. At this, the man stood up and shuffled to the bars of the cell. He put his hands over his throat and his mouth, and vigorously shook his head.
“See? There he goes again!” Wills addressed the man. “I told you, you didn’t even have anything to eat since you got here, so you can’t be choking on anything.” The man gave Andy a tired glare, then he repeated the gesture with more force. Then Henry understood, and the sheriff laughed a little.
“Andy, he’s not choking, or even pretending to,” he chuckled. Henry turned to the man. “You’re dumb, right? Mute?” The man nodded, and the creases on his head became less pronounced. “Deaf as well?” The man shook his head, No.
“Oh,” Wills said. “That makes more sense,” he added, blushing. Henry grinned: it was not every day that Andy Wills had so little to say.
“Well, now that we have that cleared up, my name is Henry Palmer, and I am the sheriff of Stromwell, Texas. You are currently in my station. Now, before we let you go, I have to ask you a few questions just to clear up what happened last night. As of right now, I don’t think anybody needs to be arrested, but I’d like to make sure. Andy, could you go and get some paper from my office?” The deputy rushed into the adjoining room and dutifully returned with a pad of paper and a pen, handing them to the mute man with a shame-faced, “There you go.”
“Ok,” the sheriff continued. “Let’s start with something simple. What’s your name?” the man scribbled something on a piece of paper, and held it up for Henry to see. There were only two letters written on it: M-O. “Mo?” the sheriff asked, and raised his eyebrows. “That short for anything?” Mo pointed to the letters on the paper.
“Got a last name?”
Mo pointed again.
“Where’re you from? Where’re you staying?”
Point.
“Do you know how to write anything other than your name?” Mo shook his head. The sheriff scratched his chin, then decided, “Ok, here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to ask you yes or no questions, Mo, and you just answer them by nodding or shaking your head. Sound good?”
Nod.
After a few minutes, Henry learned that yes, Mo was from out of town, and yes, was just passing through, but had lived in Texas all his life. No, he did not have a job or place of residence, and by most definitions of the word, was a drifter. No, there was no one that he could contact, and he hadn’t done anything while in town except some farm work. So, Henry began questioning Mo about the night before.
“Do you remember where you were last night? What happened to you?” Mo wiggled his hand in the air. So-So. “You were in a fight, and the way I heard it, you threw the first punch.” Henry then related to Mo the story that Deputy Wills had told him. As he told it, he saw in Mo’s brow knit up, and could tell that he remembered it, more or less. Once he had finished, he asked the mute, “Does that sound about right?” Mo nodded in agreement, rubbing his head. Then he tapped on the cell’s bar, raising his eyebrows in a question.
“Yes, I believe that you’ll be able to get out of here in just a moment. Even if you did start the fight it looks like you were the one who came out the worse for wear; those cuts look like they’re from rings,” Palmer observed, nodding to wounds running across Mo’s face. “Besides, they fled the scene, and left you unconscious with the barman. I’m not saying that you’ll be able to press charges, seeing as you started it all, but-” Henry was interrupted by what he at first thought was Mo wheezing or coughing. However, when Mo turned out his pockets, he realized that the man was laughing. “Yeah, lawyers can be damned expensive,” Henry chuckled. “Anyway, I’m just gonna go get the keys, and we can let you out of here.” Mo nodded in appreciation.
The sheriff returned with his key ring, and unlocked the cell. At first the door wouldn’t budge, but eventually it slowly creaked open. Mo exited and extended his hand, doing his best to smile with his damaged face. Even with a banged up face, the kid still had a real smile left in him. Henry took it and shook.
“Stay out of trouble,” he cautioned. Mo nodded, moving his eyes towards the floor. The young man was just about to exit the station when he stopped, his hand inches from the door. He turned to Sheriff Palmer, and rubbed his neck.  He held his hands up as if to motion something, but they simply hung suspended in the air.
“What is it?” Henry asked. Mo held his hand up perpendicular to his face, splayed it, and wiggled his second, third and fourth fingers up and down in a deliberate waving motion, as if they were pushing or tapping something. Henry’s brow furrowed, puzzled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mo rubbed his forehead, the creases returning to it, and repeated the action with more force.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “I don’t understand.” Mo rubbed his hands over his roughly shaved head, and paced around the room, checking every corner, poking his head through the sheriff’s office, even going into the bathroom. His brow furrowed even more and he began to sweat, and his hands tapped incessantly against his jeans.
“You looking for something?” Henry asked. Mo nodded vigorously, wiggled his fingers in that odd way, and continued his search. He rifled through cabinets, tore open the lids to trash cans, anything that he could find. He even ran back into the now empty cell. Henry chased after him, eventually grabbing him by the shoulders and managing to stop him just before he tipped over a filing cabinet.
“Relax, son! Just relax! Jesus.” Mo yanked himself away from the sheriff, and Henry noticed the veins that had begun to pulse in his forehead and neck. “Can you show me what’s missing?” Mo made the same motion with his hand, but the sheriff just shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to try something different.” Mo let out a loud rasp and lashed out against the closest wall, punching it three times, almost chipping the paint. The wall was made of painted over concrete, though, and did not give under Mo’s outburst; Henry could see the shock reverberating from the wall, back up Mo’s arms with each blow. Red flecked the wall, a few drops even landing on the mural. It looked like it hurt. Henry grabbed Mo’s arms from behind, spinning the young man around to face him. “Look at me, son. Look. I know you’re upset, but you can’t do that, not in my station. Here, let me see your hands.”  Mo reluctantly held his hands out in front of him. He had shredded the skin of his knuckles, and there was some blood beginning to drip down his fingertips. “Jesus, look what you did. Doc’s gonna have a field day with you now. Why don’t you go and wrap these up? ” Mo shook his head and pulled his hands away, putting his face in his palms.
“Just listen a sec, okay? If whatever this is means this much to you, I’ll help you find it. But you can’t go and do dumb s*** like that. You’re only gonna hurt yourself.” The top of Mo’s head nodded in agreement. “Good. Hey, Andy!”
“Huh? Yeah boss?” was the muffled response from behind the office door.
“Did Mo come in here with anything? Anything besides his own clothes?”
“Sir, he barely came in here at all. I had to carry him in. Took a long time, too. Reminded me of-”
“Thank you, Andy,” Henry interrupted. He turned to Mo, who was now sitting in a corner, nursing his injured hands.
“Alright, let’s think about this,” the sheriff began. “Did you have it with you at the bar?” Mo’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, and nodded vigorously. He sprang up and immediately started out the door.
“Now hold on a minute!” the sheriff yelled after him. “Andy, cover the phone for a while. Unless something comes up, I’m going to help the boy find something before he leaves town.”
“What’s he missing?”
“I’ll let you know when I find out. And, Andy? If I call you about this one,” Henry said, gesturing to Mo, who was now impatiently kicking at stones by the sheriff’s cruiser, “you come over immediately.”
“You think he’s gonna cause trouble?”
“Any more than he has already? I’d rather not find out.”

Mo caressed his hand gingerly, trying not to agitate his knuckles too much, which was difficult when every bump in the road shook through the sheriff’s car and up into his arms. His head still ached like hell, and the cuts on his face burned and stung like tiny firecrackers embedded in his skin. His damn leg wouldn’t stop shaking, either. He needed to get back to that bar. It was quiet, too: Sheriff Palmer hadn’t said a word since they’d started driving. Mo hated the quiet.
The old Dodge sedan went over a pothole, sending Mo’s head into a flurry of pain. He winced, gently pressing the area around his swollen eye, trying to feel out how bad the whole thing really was.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Palmer apologized. “Damn road’s so old, I’ve seen tortoises die right next to it.” Mo nodded his throbbing head in agreement. The road that they were driving down looked less like a road, and more like a mutilated snake. Webs of cracks stretched out in front of the Dodge’s hood, arcing and splitting off from one another like a broken net. In some places, entire hunks of pavement were missing, leaving jagged holes, ready to swallow up whatever had the misfortune of crossing over them.
“Yeah, towns around here, they don’t see much maintenance,” the sheriff continued. “Nobody really drives through here all that often, so anybody that ain’t from around here doesn’t really think the road needs fixing. Most of the townsfolk, they just get used to it after a while. You can relax, you know. Can’t do anything until we get to Barry’s and it’s right on the edge of town, near the farmland.” Mo looked at the sheriff, puzzled, then realized that his leg was still shaking. He sighed a grunt of reply, and the silence resumed, like a glass curtain going down between him and the sheriff. Palmer took a breath, and Mo turned his head to face him, expectantly.
“I gotta say, this is a little odd for me. Usually when I’m at work my deputy does enough talking for three men. And when I get home, my wife always has some story to tell.” Palmer glanced at Mo for a moment, as if her were expecting him to say something. Mo shrugged, and went back to staring out the windshield. After a while most people got used to Mo’s muteness, and just stopped talking to him. It was easier for them that way. So, Mo just waited for Sheriff Palmer to get used to it, and turned his attention to the surrounding landscape. On his right, there was little but plains and farmland, a symphony of browns and golds, where the occasional cow would casually poke its head up from the hay to watch the two men drive by from behind an old wooden fence. Mo saw a lot of farmland in his travels, but the plains had never held much interest to him. The endless nothingness just reminded him of how much farther he had to go until the next town, how much longer he would have trek, wearing down the soles of his mud-stained work boots. Instead, Mo looked out the window of the Dodge and into the sky. Today, it was almost completely covered by a blockade of clouds the color of wool. It muted any precious shreds blue that managed to escape, making Mo frown. He loved the feeling of the sun on his face, the radiance of the light that touched everything and everyone regardless of who they were. The clouds did not just obscure that, but they also kept the world below unaware of just how beautiful the day could have been if not for that gray barrier. So, Mo turned back to the road, and silently watched for his and the sheriff’s destination through the bleak morning light.

Barry’s Bar and Grill was built fifty years ago out of an old farmhouse that had long since run its course in Barry Filmore’s family. The wood was dark with age, paint was peeling off of it in some parts, and the only thing that kept people from believing that it was abandoned was the sign hanging above the front door, displaying the word Barry’s in red neon. That sign was the first thing that any man saw before he entered Stromwell, and the last thing he saw before he left. And, as the police cruiser pulled in to the bar’s gravel parking lot, Henry figured that it was because of this sign that Mo first stopped by Barry’s while on his way through town last night.
“Well, here it is.” Henry parked the car and shut off the motor. He turned to Mo, glad to see that the young man had the beginnings of a smile on his face, even after his reaction back at the station.
“Now, are you sure that you’re okay to go in there? There’s always a possibility that whatever it is you’re looking for-” Mo raised his hand to his face and made the waving gesture with his fingers. “Yeah, that. There’s always a possibility that it won’t be there, and I need to know that you can keep your cool before I let you go in.” Mo nodded his head, pointing to the neon sign. “You’re sure it’s in there?” Mo nodded again, still pointing to the sign. “Okay, but just take a deep breath or something before we go in.” Mo laughed his wheezing laugh and stepped out of the car. Henry followed, but before either of them stepped inside Mo extended his hand to Henry one last time. Henry took it and shook.
“Absolutely,” he said, smiling. “Anytime.”
It was the middle of the day, and the building was completely empty except for Barry Filmore’s lanky grandson, Garth, who was sweeping up behind the bar. Henry entered first, followed by Mo, who was already tapping his fingers against his thighs in excitement.
“Hey there, Garth,” Henry said, walking into the bar. Barry’s looked like nearly every other bar and grill in Texas: Chairs, tables, a pool table and a bar. The only real difference was that nearly everything inside was made of wood, and that on this particular day there lay in one corner a pile of sticks that looked like it may have been a chair until a short time ago.
“Hi, Sheriff. You here to fix my barstool?” Garth joked, propping himself up by his broom handle.
“Maybe another time. You remember Mo, here, don’t you?” Henry asked, gesturing to the young black man, who, though he was showing clear restraint, had already begun walking around the bar, attempting to casually look underneath the tables.
Garth smiled nervously at the mute, showing a set of crooked teeth. “Yeah, you got your ass handed to you pretty good last night. Carl, he knocked the guy straight through my barstool. I mean, it was old and kinda rotten and all, but it still was a hell of a hit.” Mo waved the comment off, and continued to look under the tables.
“Yeah, I heard about the fight. That’s not why we’re here,” Henry told him. “See, Mo thinks that he might’ve left something here, something real important to him.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what? Do vags like him come with buried treasure these days?” Garth laughed, putting away the broom and proceeding to wipe the bar down with an old rag. Henry knew guys like Garth. They were cut from the same cloth as Andy: good guys, talkative, if a little tactless. He’d learned to be patient with them.
“Probably not, Garth, but all the same, would you mind if he took a look around? It’s not like you’re terribly busy.”
“Uh, sure. Go right ahead. Just don’t mess nothin’ up.” Upon hearing this, Mo abandoned all pretenses and began animatedly searching the bar. He’d already looked under every chair and table, so he moved to the bathrooms, then behind the bar, in trashcans, the kitchen, and, much to Garth’s protest, the small back office where the money was kept. Thirty minutes passed with Mo methodically scouring every inch of Barry’s Bar and Grill, each time coming up empty handed. Once Mo had checked the same trashcan twice, Henry cautiously approached him.
“Mo,” he said with the same practiced evenness that one would use on stray dogs, “it’s not here, Mo.” If the man heard him, he did not show it. Mo continued his search, going back to check under the tables. “Mo,” Henry said, a little louder this time, “It’s not here.” Henry knelt down next to Mo, who was now crawling on his hands and knees from table to table. “Mo.” Henry put a hand on his shoulder, and the mute’s head shot up and met the sheriff’s eyes as if noticing him for the first time. But, where Henry had expected to see anger, or rage, Mo’s eyes showed only pain, the undeniable pain of a man whose soul has been stripped from him, the pain of a man who realizes just how close he is to the brink, and that he has to abandon hope.
“Come on, Mo. Stand up.” Henry took his friend by the hand and pulled him to his feet. Mo kept his eyes to the ground, as if as long as he didn’t take his eyes off of the table, whatever he was searching for might appear under it. Henry walked up to Garth, who was still behind the bar. Mo followed.
“Well, thanks for letting him have a look around.”
“Sure, no problem,” Garth said, eyeing Mo cautiously. “Is- is he gonna be alright?”
“I think he’ll be okay, he just needs some time is all,” Henry said. Then Henry Palmer felt a familiar weight leave his side, heard the rubbing of leather on metal, an unfamiliar metallic click, and turned around to see Mo holding his Colt .45.

Mo’s hands, still torn from the police station’s concrete wall, were steady as a surgeon’s: the revolver did not waver in the slightest, not even when Mo trained the barrel on Garth’s head.
“Hey, wha-what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Garth shouted, raising his hands instinctively. “Sheriff, do something!” Henry stared at Mo, hoping to meet his gaze for a moment, just long enough to give Garth the opportunity to run. But Mo’s eyes, furrowed in pain and sorrow and deep concentration, would not meet his; they were locked on the slack-jawed bartender.
“Mo, listen to me. I know that you’re upset, I can see that. We both can. But, this? This is not the way.” Mo took a step closer to the bar. Henry worried that he’d lost him, that he’d gone deaf again. “Mo, please, I’m begging you here, put down the gun before you do something that you will regret the rest of your life. Whatever it is, it’s not worth killing for.”
Mo paused for a moment, never removing his eyes from Garth, then nodded his head. Yes it is.
“No, no please, please don’t,” Garth whimpered. Mo grabbed Garth’s sweat and booze-stained flannel shirt from over the counter and pulled him close to his face. Mo pulled the gun’s hammer back, and mouthed three words, silent but unmistakable: “Where is it?” Something in Garth gave way.
“It’s out back. By the dumpster. I’m sorry.” Mo pushed Garth back and sprinted outside to the back of the old farmhouse. Garth looked at Henry pleadingly.
“Sheriff, I swear, I didn’t know. Carl, he used it to beat the poor bastard, that’s why he’s all messed up. And then, he and his buddy, they went outside and threw it against the wall and it broke and it had so much blood on it. I didn’t know what to do, it had blood all over it, and I didn’t want to get shut down. Oh God, I’m sorry.” Henry looked at Garth, his forehead creased with incredulity and disappointment, and ran outside after Mo.
***
They’d broken it. The bastards had broken it.
Mo knelt beside it, caressing the cool metal. It was bent in half, and one end was crumpled as if one of them had stomped on it. The other end was covered in blood, his blood, now dried and brown, like rust. Mo looked at his hands, Henry’s pistol still clenched tightly in one of them. His skin had turned ashen. He felt sick, like he was going to vomit and die right there on the gravel. He didn’t care. The bastards had broken it. Mo didn’t try to scream. He didn’t try to cry. He was silent. A chunk of himself had shriveled up inside of him. He heard footsteps. Henry was saying something. Shouting. Mo picked it up, held it close to his chest. The sun shone through a crack in the clouds, but it felt cold, artificial. He stood up. Henry was standing a few yards away from him, his face lined with severity. Garth was trying to hide behind the sheriff, raising his arms in fear. Mo raised the pistol numbly, his face completely blank. The barrel wavered, drifting between Garth, Henry, and Mo himself, until finally settling on the proper target, the one that needed the bullet most. Mo c***ed the gun, and did not wince even as the sunlight shone in his eyes, glinting off of Henry’s gun and Mo’s trumpet. He pulled the trigger.