Desperate to salvage his life, Trent hired Bradley Jenkins, the most aggressive defense attorney in the county. Trent emptied his savings account to pay the retainer, demanding that Bradley dig up whatever dirt he could on Arthur Hayes to prove the driver was a violent sociopath who provoked the attack.

A week later, Bradley called Trent into his mahogany-lined office. The lawyer did not look happy. A thick manila folder rested on his desk.

“I told you to find his history,” Trent said, sitting down awkwardly due to the heavy brace on his arm. “Tell me he has a record. Tell me he’s got PTSD and snapped. We can use that.”

Bradley took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Trent, you are a complete idiot.”

Trent bristled. “Excuse me?”

“I pulled his military jacket. Well, I pulled what wasn’t heavily redacted by the Department of Defense,” Bradley said, tapping the folder. “Arthur Hayes isn’t just a veteran. He was a Tier 1 operator. He commissioned in 1988. He served in Panama, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Iraq. During the Battle of Ramadi in 2006, his unit was pinned down in a three-story building by insurgents. Hayes personally cleared the bottom two floors in close-quarters combat to secure an extraction route for his wounded men.”

Bradley opened the folder, revealing a grainy photocopied commendation letter. “He was awarded the Navy Cross, Trent—the second highest military decoration in the United States. He retired quietly a decade ago. He moved out here to the middle of nowhere, took a job driving a bus, and tried to be invisible because he has dealt with more violence in one afternoon than you will see in your entire lifetime.”

Bradley leaned forward, his voice dropping into a harsh, unforgiving register. “You poked a sleeping dragon, Trent. If we go to court and try to paint you as the victim, the district attorney is going to put Arthur Hayes on the stand. He’ll show up in his dress uniform. The jury will see a decorated American hero who was just trying to drive a bus full of citizens home in a blizzard, and they will see you—a 24-year-old cage fighter who terrorized a 19-year-old girl and threw a sucker punch at a veteran. They will bury you under the jail.”

Trent stared at the folder. The words blurred together. He suddenly felt very small, like a child who had wandered into the deep end of the ocean and suddenly realized there were monsters swimming beneath his feet.

“So what do I do?” Trent asked, his voice cracking, the arrogant swagger finally completely stripped away.

“You drop this fantasy of a lawsuit,” Bradley said flatly. “You plead guilty to the lesser charge of disturbing the peace and simple assault. You take the probation and the community service, and you pray that Arthur Hayes doesn’t decide to show up at your sentencing to read a victim impact statement.”