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for guidance. "We can't let them come here," Will said, his voice ringing out in the crowded room. "We can't let them intimidate us. We can't let them destroy everything we've built." "But what can we do?" someone called out. "They've got guns. They've got numbers. We're outnumbered, outgunned. If they come, we're done for." Will held up his hands, calling for silence. "I'm not going to lie to you," he said. "The situation is dangerous. But we have options. We have the law on our side. We have the Constitution. And we have each other." He laid out his plan. He would appeal to the governor, to the federal government, to anyone who would listen. He would use the media, the press, to shine a light on what was happening. He would build a coalition of white allies, people who were willing to stand up against the mob. "But most importantly," he said, "we have to stand together. We have to show them that we're not afraid. We have to show them that we're a community, that we're strong, that we won't be intimidated." The room erupted in applause. People were moved, inspired, determined. They had been afraid, but now they had a leader, a plan, a purpose. The night of the march was sweltering, the air thick with humidity and the smell of magnolias. The black community gathered in the church, their faces lit by the flickering glow of candles. They were there to pray, to support each other, to show their solidarity. Will stood at the front of the sanctuary, flanked by Reverend Thomas and Elijah. He could feel the weight of the moment, the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. He was the one who had brought them here, the one who had given them hope. He couldn't let them down. "We're going to meet them," he said. "We're going to stand on the edge of town, and we're going to show them that we're not afraid. We're going to sing, and we're going to pray, and we're going to show them the power of our faith." The congregation murmured their agreement. They were scared, but they were also determined. They had endured so much, suffered so much. They weren't going to give up now. The march was scheduled to start at midnight. Will stood at the edge of town, surrounded by a group of black men and women, their faces illuminated by the glow of their candles. They were singing hymns, their voices rising in the night air. In the distance, they could see the glow of torches, the flickering light of the approaching mob. The white men were coming, their faces twisted with anger and hatred. Will stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He was alone now, standing between the two groups. He could see the faces of the men in the mob—men he had grown up with, men he had known his whole life. They were neighbors, friends, even family. But now they were enemies. "Stop!" he shouted, his voice ringing out in the night. "Stop right there!" The mob hesitated, surprised by his audacity. They had expected fear, submission. They hadn't expected resistance. "You don't want to do this," Will said. "You don't want to be on the wrong side of history. You don't want to be remembered as the men who attacked innocent people." The men muttered among themselves, uncertain. Will pressed his advantage. "I know you," he said. "I know most of you. We grew up together. We went to school together. We played together. And now you're