And in that nod I saw something I didn’t expect.
Relief.
Because deep down, he didn’t want to be in the middle of this either.
None of us did.
But here we were.
Two days later, the community center smelled like old varnish, coffee, and the faint ghost of gym socks.
A folding table sat near the entrance.
Same cardboard sign.
New location.
Less spotlight.
More real.
People showed up anyway.
Not with cameras.
With bags.
One woman brought diapers and didn’t say a word.
A mechanic-looking guy dropped off cans of formula and wiped his eyes like he had something in them.
A teenager taped a new sign underneath the old one:
NO PHONES.
NO QUESTIONS.
NO SHAME.
And for a moment—just a moment—it felt like the country I thought I’d lost.
Then the door opened, and the last person I wanted to see walked in.
The loudmouth from aisle 4.
Same expensive boots.
Same posture like the world owed him an apology.
He scanned the room like he was counting enemies.
I felt my shoulders rise.
My fists tightened.
The war in my chest woke up.
He spotted me and smirked. “Of course,” he said. “You again.”
People turned.
Whispers started.
A few phones lifted out of habit, then lowered when they saw the “NO PHONES” sign.