* * *
The girls stopped in a backyard on the southeast skirt of downtown Minneapolis. Kris collapsed next to a garage shedding its gray paint in patches. Sher leaned against it, her lungs and legs built strong from running. Jacob flopped onto the ground. Sirens blared from the south, wound west, and then headed north as they made their way to the rally, now a full-blown riot.
“Cops,” Sher said. She dropped to the ground.
Jacob froze. He felt he should run, yell, “Run, Nazis, laufen, laufen” the way his parents had in their sleep, their eyelids fluttering like pallid moth wings—hands and knees jerking in a suburb outside Chicago to ward off the SS men who grabbed them and their parents off the streets of Berlin thirty years earlier. “Run! Run!” Jacob’s grandparents yelled to his parents.
