Moments like this, I miss Tariq Johnson more than ever. I need a second with a better head on his shoulders. Noodle’s loyal, and tough. He takes his marching orders without pushback—usually—and he knows how to keep the rank and file in line. But I need someone to bounce ideas off of. I used to have these conversations with T, before he got shot. And Jennica, too, when she was on the inside. Now I’m on my own. Juggling the big decisions without a sounding board ain’t easy. Can’t take Noodle’s word for what’s going down. Gotta see it for myself.

The shouting reaches me two blocks out. What the actual …

OFFICER YOUNG

Crowd control is usually a bullshit assignment. Boring as hell. We stand on a street corner during a march for breast cancer awareness, or whatever, and watch the chattering ladies stroll by, carrying their signs and balloons. We stare at pink shirts, hats so long the color loses meaning. We try not to think about breasts, even though they are all around us and the word is everywhere, too.

There is something musical about the shouting and chanting; we are lulled by it. There is energy pouring out of the comparatively small bodies in front of us. There is something powerful about the passion and anger directed at this disease, something moving about the idea of people coming together to make change.

We stand there, vigilance level set to automatic. Our eyes flick here and there occasionally. We admonish people for sneaking through the barricades. Sometimes they cross them anyway. We’re part of the fabric backdrop. Everyone moves through us.

We get our toes run over by strollers a couple of times. Sometimes we get an apology. We give directions to the porta-potties. We stand with our thumbs hooked over our belts because we think it looks cooler than letting our arms dangle, plus the department discourages crossed arms because some captain took a course in nonverbal communication and determined that the messaging is unfriendly.

That’s what it’s supposed to be. Tonight it’s not that.

Tonight, the only splash of pink has great meaning.

Tonight we stand with our arms crossed.

We put on our most menacing stares. If anyone steps on our feet, we can respond with appropriate force. If anyone has to pee, it’s their own damn problem to solve.

There is something menacing about the shouting and chanting; we are disturbed by it. There is energy pouring out of the comparatively dark bodies in front of us. There is something unsettling about the passion and anger directed at us, something terrifying about the idea of people coming together to tear our blue line down.