Don't give him a reason.
"Hey."
The voice was sharp.
Not friendly.
George finally looked up.
The officer was white, in his mid-40s, with a buzz cut that had grown out unevenly and a jaw that looked permanently clenched.
His uniform was wrinkled.
His tie was loose.
The nameplate on his chest read THOMPSON.
But it was his eyes George noticed most.
Flat.
Cold.
The kind of eyes that seemed to have reached a conclusion before asking a single question.
"Morning, officer," George said.
His voice was polite and even.
His parents had trained that into him.
Yes, sir.
No, sir.
Keep your hands visible.
Thompson didn't return the greeting.
He looked George up and down slowly, as though cataloging evidence.
His gaze lingered on the backpack.
Then George's jeans.
His sneakers.
His face.
"You live around here?" Thompson asked.
"Yes, sir. Just up the street."
George pointed toward his house, three blocks east, without moving his feet.
"Uh-huh."
Thompson rested one hand on his belt.
"What are you doing out here?"
"Waiting for the school bus, sir. I have an exam this morning."
Thompson's lip curled slightly.
He stepped closer.
George smelled coffee and stale cigarettes.
"School bus?" Thompson repeated, dragging out the words as if the answer itself were suspicious.
"You got ID?"
George's stomach dropped.
He kept his expression calm.
"Yes, sir. It's in my backpack. May I reach for it?"
Thompson didn't answer immediately.
He stared at George.
And in that silence, George felt the morning change.
The cherry blossoms didn't matter anymore.
The daffodils didn't matter.
The physics exam didn't matter.
All that mattered was the man with the badge who seemed to have already decided George was guilty of something.
"Slowly," Thompson finally said.
George knew, with the cold certainty of every lesson his parents had ever taught him, that nothing about this morning was going to be okay.
George's hands moved with deliberate slowness.
The kind of choreographed caution that shouldn't have been necessary for a 16-year-old reaching for a student ID.
He unzipped the front pocket of his backpack.
His fingers remained visible.
Every movement was telegraphed.
The laminated card sat where it always did, tucked into the small mesh pouch beside his calculator.
"Here you go, sir."
George held it out between two fingers.
Thompson didn't take it.
He barely looked at it.
Instead, he shifted his weight while his jaw worked a piece of gum with rhythmic snaps.
The smell of artificial spearmint cut through the morning air.
Too sweet.
Too strong.
His eyes remained fixed on George's face.
Not the ID.
Something about that felt like a trap.
"I said slowly," Thompson said.
George hadn't moved quickly at all.
"Yes, sir. This is my student ID. I'm a junior at Maplewood High. Like I said, I'm waiting for the bus."
Thompson glanced toward the card without really examining it.
He didn't read the name.
Didn't check the photograph.
He waved it away like it was irrelevant.
"Put that away."
George's chest tightened.
"Sir, you asked for..."
"I said put it away."
Thompson's voice became sharp.
His hand dropped toward his belt, hovering near the taser.
"You giving me attitude?"
"No, sir. I'm not."
George slid the ID back into his backpack.