I wait to see if the guy will leave, but he walks down the street toward another office building. Without hesitation, I sneak behind the white SUV to get a better look. Inside, sitting on the back seat, are boxes from the copy store. An image of the original copy is taped on top of the box, but it’s too hard to see unless I go on the street side. I strain to search the other half of the car, trying not to look suspicious. When I can’t take the curiosity anymore, I go around. My heart beats fast for fear of getting caught, or worse…facing him again.

In broad daylight, on the street side, I peek in the white SUV’s window. Taped to the top of the box is a sign, a drawing of a white, straight couple holding a baby. The words at the top: Don’t let white guilt control you. Join together and honor our heritage.

My heart is racing. I read again, searching for the name of the organization. Nothing states Liberty Heritage for America, though. The posters are clearly recruitment flyers. The flyer doesn’t state a meeting location, but my guess is Tuesdays at the Pike is one of them. This could be Angela’s exposé.

I move closer to the driver’s side, but out of the corner of my eye I spot the man leaving the office, so I cross traffic. He doesn’t see me but turns toward his parked car. We’ll be forced to walk by each other. I duck into a store and hold my breath until he walks past.

I close my eyes to picture him in the police station. Then our interaction in the grocery. The hate in his eyes was the same. My breathing gets labored. I suck in air to calm myself, but my panic grows.

I don’t forget a face. Spent my whole life observing everything around me. It was him. I didn’t catch it before because he was so far away, his sunglasses and hat covering his eyes.

I race to Jamal’s car, dumping my groceries in the back, then lock the doors. I scroll through my phone, searching the Liberty Heritage for a New America staff directory. I find a Richard Brighton. Google his name. His image is as clear as day. Brother to Sheriff Brighton.

I check my other phone, not having heard from Jamal recently. At a stoplight, I blow up his phone with desperate texts. With the hot, dusty air outside rushing in through the open windows, I feel like I’m riding in our evacuation bus all over again. I shut the windows because I don’t want those memories to chase me home.

GUESS WHO’S COMING

TO DINNER?