Another second or two and he was standing in front of me. The rest of the guards lined up on either side of him. The Yard King glanced to his left and to his right.

“Get this con garbage back in their cells,” he growled.

Instantly the guards started moving, started screaming at the prisoners, striking out at them and herding them toward the prison doors. The men moved sullenly, their gray shoulders hunched. They cast wicked glances at one another, muttering threats through the gaps between the guards.

I started moving, too, figuring I was supposed to go back to my cell as well.

But Dunbar stepped in close to me, blocking my way.

“Not you, lowlife,” he said. He had a voice like a rake on gravel. It seemed to rattle inside his throat as it came out at me. “You’re the one who started this.”

“Me?” I blurted out. “I was just standing here. That guy tried to kill me. He had a knife. He…”

The Yard King hit me in the face. He used the back of his hand, snapping it fast at my cheek. My head flew back, my thoughts rattled.

“Shut up,” Dunbar said. “Don’t lie to me.”

I rubbed my bruised cheek. It didn’t seem like a good idea to answer him, so I didn’t.

Dunbar smiled, his eyes flashing. “How could anyone have a knife in the yard?” he asked me. “If someone had a knife in the yard, that would mean they’d gotten it past one of my guards. That would mean there was something wrong with the way I run this place. You think there’s something wrong with the way I run this place, punk?”

I went on rubbing my cheek. I went on not answering. But that wasn’t good enough for the Yard King.

This time, when he struck out at me, my hand was in his way and blocked the blow. But I still felt the jar of it.