He opened his mouth and closed it.
Across the pump island, the young man with the lawn trailer had taken his hands out of his sweatshirt pocket. He was not holding anything; he was standing with his arms loose at his sides the way men stand when they have decided to stay somewhere and have not decided what they will do there. He looked at Selma. "You good, ma'am?" he called over.
"I'm all right. Thank you." She hesitated, then made herself say it. "Would you mind staying a few minutes? If you have time."
"Yeah," he said. "I got time."
The sergeant turned his head and looked at him. "Sir, I'm going to need you to move along."
"I'm just standing here, officer."
"I said move along."
"It's a gas station," the young man said, and did not move, and did not raise his voice, and after a second the sergeant turned back to Selma as if the young man had evaporated.
Selma looked at the clock on the pump. Five-sixteen.
"Sergeant Kopecky," she said. She said his name carefully, the way he had said hers. "I'd like to go pick up my son. He's nine. His practice ends at six, at Carondelet Park, and if I'm late he has to sit on the bench and wait. I would like very much not to be late. So I'm going to ask you one more time. What is the reason you're detaining me?"
"I told you the reason."