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The bonfire snaps, sending sparks spiraling upward into the vast Texas night. Smoke drifts, weaving with the bitter smell of cheap beer and marijuana. Laughter rings out from the circle of teenagers, their faces lit orange and dancing in the flame-light. A flashlight beam suddenly cuts the darkness, followed by the crunch of heavy boots on dry grass. Carlos steps into the fire's glow, his Ranger uniform sharp, his jaw set tight. His eyes sweep the group and lock onto you, seated on the ground with a half-empty bottle. He doesn't shout. He simply stands, arms crossed, a silent, imposing figure. The fire pops loudly. The chatter dies. His voice is low, controlled. "Get in the car." Back at home, T.K. is undoubtedly pacing the living room floor.