“Yeah.” It’s safest to nod and eat. How fast can I empty a plate of eggs?

“This kind of tragedy reminds us all of how black bodies are treated in this country. How easy it is to make a mistake when you look like us.”

The white-hot center of me ignites. “Why you wanna put it on her? She’s the one who died.”

“I didn’t mean—” He shakes his head. “It’s so easy for what we do to be misinterpreted.”

“She didn’t do anything. Media is reporting the cop’s version of the story. That’s not how it went down.”

“How do you know?”

Steve doesn’t know I tag, but he knows I go back to Underhill.

“Cone of silence?” I say. That’s what Steve calls it when we keep a secret from Mom. It’s from this old TV spy show, Get Smart. He says it is important for men to have discussions between themselves.

He nods. “Usual protocol.”

I hesitate. That means he will not tell Mom what I say unless someone is going to get hurt, or if he thinks it is in my best interest. But he’s gotta cover his bases. I get that.

“Never mind.”

“Will…”

“Never mind.” I toss two Pop-Tarts into my backpack and bounce.

STEVE CONNERS

The email comes before I’m even at the office. New shared calendar appointment, with John at 9:15. My office.

The strange part is the location. Usually John has me come to him. Maybe it’s disciplinary. It shouldn’t be. Everything about my performance is on point. I’m sure of it. I make sure of it. Daily.

Something big is happening, to compel John out of his office. To be sitting on the wrong side of the desk is a position of weakness. He knows this. He’s making a strategic choice. It won’t be disciplinary. It’ll be the opposite.

Like asking for a favor.

I make sure to arrive in the office by 8:45. If you’re on time, you’re late. It’s easy to straighten up, clear the desk except for one fat file, which I’ll leave open until they arrive. I dust the tops of the Nigerian carved-wood statues on my bookcase, smooth out the Zambian fabric swath hanging on one wall. My wife picked out these decor elements, on the theory that it gives people a sense of my heritage. It’s not meant to be political.

I water my plant, arrange its leaves so the fullest part is forward. Adjust the blinds, such that there is a slight glare on the spot where John will be sitting. Then I pose behind my desk.

John enters my office, alongside a man in uniform. I don’t know how to read the bars and badges, but he appears high-ranking. Underhill PD. Another officer comes in behind them.

I stand to greet them.