I wanted there to be people in the crowd who spoke up. I wanted there to be other things besides this sentiment of hostility and rejection. For this guy and for all the rest of us. Were there any people who wanted to say something positive?

Nobody. Or if there was anyone, they were afraid to speak out against the herd. I didn’t want to leave it like this.

“Nice response time,” I said.

He turned my way and raised an eyebrow.

“You showed up quick. It was impressive.”

He nodded, studying me as if trying to find the catch. “It’s what I do.”

I wanted to say something more, but I didn’t want to push my luck. It would have been nice if he’d been less dismissive when I was throwing him a bone.

“Take care,” he said. “Cops are on their way. I’ll go let them know what’s up.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You take care too.”

He stepped down from the pole of his battleaxe and set foot on the road. Pavement splashed as if he’d stepped in a puddle. More splashed and rippled as he moved his axe in a circle around him.

When he took a step and moved, it was faster than I could track. I could see the splash that followed behind, a cresting wave that quickly settled, leaving only a faint wavy pattern in the road as it dissipated.

I’d spoken against the herd. I tried not to pay too much attention to them or give them any excuse to push back against me, instead turning my attention to the old man.

“I’m offering tea or coffee, my treat. We can talk it out, or talk about something else entirely,” I told him. “As soon as the police are done.”

He still looked like he was carrying that fresh pain, in expression and posture. He flinched some as he looked at his son’s memorial pillar. He gave the girl in the car a hard look, then seemed to let the anger out, sagging.

She was in the driver’s seat, both hands and forehead on the wheel.

“No,” he said. “You’ll have some place to be. I shouldn’t keep you more than I have. I’ll be fine.”

“Work,” I said. “They wouldn’t fire me, especially if I explained. I’d get in trouble, maybe, but I wouldn’t mind much. Job is… a seven out of ten fit.”

“Seventy percent is a lot better than some are getting,” the man said. “Keep that job. I’ll manage now.”

I glanced at the girl in the car. She had barely moved.

“You’ll leave her alone?” I asked.

The old man heaved out a sigh.