It’s a whole block away. You figure you have time to get around whatever’s going on. There’s no crime scene tape. But then suddenly you’re upon them. The cop and the child. You can tell it’s a child, somehow. Maybe you know the world all too well.

When you’re first on the scene, here’s what you find:

The body looks unreal. Some punk-ass King, or whatever, rendered inert. Black coat, like a marshmallow. Strange kicks, for a gangbanger. Is pink the new red?

The sirens are blaring. Response time was slow. One cop in the area, got to the scene first.

“What happened?”

“He’s dead. He’s dead,” the officer says. “He had a gun.”

The world inverts. This is a whole different thing. You can’t help it, you blurt out, “You shot him?”

The officer lunges to his feet. His weapon rises up. “Step back.”

You freeze, then slowly spread your hands wide. “Whoa, man. I ain’t do nothing. I ain’t see nothing.”

Heart pounding, skin pounding, the pulse pumps firmly in your chest, your knees, your eyes. You pray. Keep pumping. I ain’t gotta die today.

That corner of your brain, that worried corner, is much bigger than you thought and it’s wide awake now. It scolds. See flashing lights, go down another block. No lookie-loos. It aches. Not my time. Not today. I ain’t going down like this. It speaks to your feet. It’s your brain—it can do that. Run. Run.

You fight it. With another part of your brain, the common sense part. You hold fast there, knowing you might be shot down where you stand.

The sirens grow louder.

“Be cool, man,” you say. “Be cool.”

He’s breathing hard. And you are.

More cops roll up. More guns. All on you. Just like that, a walk home becomes a mouthful of sidewalk. Becomes handcuffs. Becomes the back of a cop car and a call to some legal aid lawyer. On the phone you tell her, “I ain’t done nothing. I ain’t seen nothing. I was just walking home.”

ZEKE

In my nightmares I see flashing lights. I see them in the glint of sun off the other cars’ hoods in the rearview. I see them in the glare off the road signs and in bouncing headlights. I see a white car with a ski rack and I ease off the gas on instinct. Just in case.

I wanna fly, you know? I wanna put the pedal to the metal, knowing I can afford the cost of a ticket. It’s gonna be what, fifty bucks? A hundred? I don’t know. Never been pulled over. Never wanna be.

Watch the needle like a hawk instead.

Every time.

Tonight, the lights behind me are real.