He zipped the pocket slowly, buying himself a moment to think.
His mind raced through the instructions his parents had drilled into him since he was 12.
Stay calm.
Be polite.
Don't argue.
Live to tell the story.
Thompson stepped closer.
Close enough that George could see the coffee stain on his collar and a missed patch of stubble along his neck.
The officer's boots were scuffed.
His tie crooked.
Everything about him carried a bitter exhaustion, like he'd been angry for so long that anger had soaked into his bones.
"You know what's funny?" Thompson asked.
His tone turned conversational.
Somehow, that felt worse.
He popped his gum.
"I got a call about 20 minutes ago. Suspicious person in this area. Black male, about your height, your build."
He slowly circled George.
"Wearing dark clothing. Backpack. Pretty specific description."
George's pulse hammered.
"Sir, I live here. I'm waiting for my bus."
"That's what they all say."
Thompson stopped in front of him again.
"Funny how everyone's always just waiting or just walking when we roll up. Never doing anything wrong."
He smiled.
It didn't reach his eyes.
"Where were you last night? Say around 10:00 p.m.?"
"I was home studying. My mom was with me."
"You got proof of that?"
George blinked.
"Proof?"
"Yeah. Proof. Witnesses, video, something that puts you somewhere else."
Thompson leaned closer.
George could see the tiny blood vessels in his eyes.
The exhaustion that had curdled into meanness.
"Because right now you're fitting a description, kid. That makes you a person of interest."
"There is no description," George said.
The words escaped before he could stop them.
"I haven't done anything."
Thompson's expression shifted.
Something dark.
Satisfied.
"You calling me a liar?"
"No, sir. I just..."
"Because it sounds like you're calling me a liar."
Thompson straightened and puffed out his chest.
"Let me explain something to you. I've been on this force for 19 years."
He held George's gaze.
"19."
"I know when somebody is lying. I know when somebody doesn't belong."
He pointed toward George's chest.
"And you don't belong here."
The words landed like a slap.
George felt heat crawl up his neck.
Not anger.
Powerlessness.
He belonged here.
His family had lived in the neighborhood for 5 years.
His mother volunteered at the community center.
His father served his country.
None of it mattered to Thompson.
"I'm going to be late for school," George said quietly.
He was trying to de-escalate.
Trying to find an exit.
"The bus will be here any minute."
"You'll leave when I say you can leave."
Thompson hooked his thumbs inside his belt.
"Right now, you're being detained for questioning."
"Detained?"
George's voice cracked.
"For what?"
"Matching the description of a suspect. Loitering. Failure to cooperate with an officer."
Thompson listed the allegations as casually as items from a menu.
"And if you keep running your mouth, we can add disorderly conduct."
George felt the world tilting.
This wasn't real.
It couldn't be.
He had flash cards in his hand.
An exam in a little over an hour.
A future mapped out in college applications and scholarship essays.
And now he was being detained at a bus stop for simply standing there.
"Sir, please. I just want to go to school."
Thompson smiled.