There has been an outpouring of anger and concern because of the

Host: The night burned with quiet unrest. The skyline pulsed with red and blue flashes — the reflection of patrol lights bouncing off rain-slick streets, smearing the color of tension across the city’s skin. The air hung heavy with humidity and protest — faint chants still echoing from the march that had just broken apart.

In the distance, a lone siren wailed — not loud, but long, the kind of sound that doesn’t fade; it lingers, the cry of something too familiar to surprise anyone anymore.

Jack and Jeeny sat on the hood of an old car, parked under the glow of a flickering streetlamp. Around them, paper signs soaked from the rain lay abandoned: “Justice for Trayvon.” “End the System.” “I Am Not a Threat.”

A phone screen glowed between them, showing Michelle Alexander’s words — the words that had poured gasoline on an already burning conversation:

“There has been an outpouring of anger and concern because of the actions of George Zimmerman, a private citizen who profiled a young boy and pursued him and tried