Repose

He still wore a watch, huh? It was 2015, deep in November, and Cris wore a wristwatch. It was more convenient than his phone, least for a guy like him. He kept his phone on his hip, amid handcuff case, magazine pouches, flashlight holder, holster, radio, blah, blah, blah. There was a lotta stuff. Standard blues (plus winter fare) and standard patrol gear and it was easier to just turn your wrist and see the time, displayed in analogue. It was how he knew now it wasn't even ten o'clock, and somehow all the deputies were out on calls or their (kinda pointless) beats, leaving the sheriff as the guy to take the call 'bout somebody making lotsa sound in his trailer. Maybe it was a fight, the caller offered, 'cause the guy in that trailer—Brett Trent, he had a lotta anger problems. It wasn't even ten o'clock and Cris snagged the thin can of an energy drink, tossed his hat into the passenger seat of his patrol car, and made his way out to see Brett Trent, former deputy.

It still wasn't even ten o'clock when the tiresa that car crunched up on cement, no blue, red, and white, no siren. The guy sat for a second. He sat, looking at the trailer, dark, quick eyes scanning the façade for anything that might help inform his approach here—stuff like, was the lawn kept up or not, were the shutters open or closed, broken or not. Were the lights on, door open, anybody around. Headlights flooded the scene before him, and he surveyed before he cut them and black fell around again, rushing in like water swamping a ship.

Cris put his hat on, he radioed that he'd arrived, and he got outta the car. The night was cold. He nudged the zippera his jacket up his throat, unclasped the holstera his gun, and went to the front door, listening for anything inside. He hadn't missed making domestic calls, huh?—He knocked and called out in a voice that was all Bronx vowels in New York narrow. "Mr. Trent, it's the police. I'd like to talk. Would you mind opening the door?"