Getting closer, Crosby heard angry shouting in response to the chants. Again, he hesitated and thought about turning back to the bus station. But it was just shouting, and he wanted to see what it was about. He reached the corner. The chanting and shouting were louder and fiercer now. It sounded like a confrontation, but from his spot at the back of the marchers, Crosby still couldn’t see. Suddenly a soda can plummeted out of the sky and clunked heavily against the asphalt near him. Crosby bent to pick it up. It weighed far more than a soda can should have, and he quickly discovered why. It was filled with cement.

The shouting continued. At the back of the crowd, Crosby jumped up and down, trying to see what was happening. He caught glimpses of a different crowd facing the marchers. It was made up of men and women carrying signs that said “Black Lives Matter,” “Love All,” and “Against Hate.”

As the groups hurled angry insults at each other, Crosby felt the air quiver with rage and tension. Another soda can sailed out of the sky and thudded against the street. A man wearing a black bicycle helmet and carrying a Confederate flag picked it up and hurled it back. Now both crowds were throwing cans at each other. The ruckus grew louder, and from the front came the grunting and scraping of physical confrontations. Crosby jumped up, again trying to see. It looked like the two crowds were clashing, swinging fists and clubs.

Fear overtook him. Never in Crosby’s life had he been this close to such mayhem and violence. Everyone was bigger than him. Everything seemed out of control. Two men staggered toward him, helping a third whose head and white shirt were red with blood. It was like war; real war. Crosby had seen enough. He turned to leave, but the street behind him was suddenly filled with commandos dressed in black, and carrying shields and wielding long black rods. Like an invading army in a video game, their faces were hidden behind dark visors. Then Crosby saw the large white patches on their chests that said police.

He was trapped. Behind him was the wall of approaching police commandos. Ahead, the mob of clashing marchers was slowly backing toward him. People were still shouting, screaming, swinging clubs at each other. Cans and bottles were flying and crashing to the ground. Some hit people near him. Others thudded against shields. Crosby swiveled his head this way and that, desperately searching for an escape route. Suddenly someone backed into him, knocking him to the ground. A man with a beard tripped over him, and Crosby was slammed to the asphalt. His heart beating wildly, terrified of being trampled, Crosby started to push himself to his feet.

But now his eyes and lungs began to burn. He couldn’t breathe. It felt as if the air was filled with invisible, noxious fumes. His eyes were tearing so badly that he could barely see. From all around him came the sounds of brawling. Crosby panicked. Gasping for air, blinded, and terrified, he held his hands out, staggering toward what he desperately hoped was safety.