BOUND BY BLOOD AND IRON

Tyler’s hands shook with humiliation as he unbuttoned the brass snaps of the letterman jacket. One by one, the buttons popped open with hollow clicks that echoed through the quiet corridor. The yellow wool sleeves felt impossibly heavy. He slipped his arms out and held the jacket limply in his hands, staring at the floor, fighting back the hot burn of tears behind his eyes.

"Drop it," Marcus said.

Tyler let go. The jacket fell in a soft heap on the wet linoleum.

Bishop returned, holding an emergency foil blanket and a thermos of black coffee. He approached Toby, kneeling beside the wheelchair with unexpected gentleness. "Wrap up, kid. We're gonna get you warmed up."

Toby pulled the crinkling silver blanket over his shoulders, accepting the steaming cup of coffee with two trembling hands. He took a sip, the bitter liquid scorching his tongue, but he didn't care; the heat spread through his chest, thawing the deep ache in his ribs.

Marcus turned his attention back to Tyler. "Tomorrow morning, you go to the principal's office. You turn yourself in for taking that key and locking the emergency doors. You accept whatever suspension they hand you. If you don't, I will personally show up at the school board meeting in full colors."

"You wouldn't," Tyler breathed. "You'd ruin everything. I have college scouts coming next Friday! State scouts, Dad! You’d throw my entire future away for him?!"

Marcus’s expression hardened into granite. "Your future is built on who you are when nobody's watching, Tyler. Right now, you're rotten at the core. Consider yourself lucky I'm letting you fix it yourself."

Marcus turned to Tank and Bishop. "Help me load Toby into the truck. We're taking him to the clubhouse to get dry and fed."

"Marcus," Bishop muttered, stepping closer and glancing past the glass doors toward the street. "Look outside."

Marcus turned. Across the dark road, parked under the heavy canopy of oaks near the school entrance, were two idling vehicles. Neither of them belonged to the club. One was an unmarked black sedan; the other was a battered pickup with the headlights off.

"Locals?" Tank asked, resting a hand on the heavy wrench tucked into his belt.

"No," Bishop replied, his jaw tight. "That sedan... that's the Miller brothers from the ridge. The ones running the illegal scrap yard across the county line."