Since then, it had been the same every crossing, every Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday: "Thank you, Ms. Gloria."
Gloria had said to herself and not to anyone else, watching Amara cross on this Wednesday afternoon while her father stood at the back of his truck, "That child is going to be something."
She walked past the white Subaru. She walked to the back of her father's truck. She stopped. She looked at the officer. She looked at her father's hands on the tailgate. She looked at the officer again.
The officer said, "Little girl, wait by the sidewalk."
She did not move to the sidewalk. She looked at the officer with the specific measuring stillness that her teachers had been noticing since second grade: the look of a child who is taking something in completely before deciding how to respond.
She said, "Why do you have my daddy's hands on his truck?"
The officer said, "Go wait on the sidewalk."
She said, "My daddy didn't do anything wrong."
The officer said, "This is police business, sweetheart."
She said, "My daddy is a civil engineer, and he picks me up every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. And today is Wednesday. And he is always here. And he is always standing by his truck. But he is not always standing like that."