It was July in Chicago. The park was green, lush, and full of screaming children.
I sat on the same bench. The one near the south entrance.
It didn’t look scary anymore. It just looked like a bench.
A golden retriever came bounding across the grass, chasing a frisbee. He was bigger now, his coat gleaming in the sun.
“Barnaby! Come here, boy!”
Leo ran after him. He was running with a slight limp—the toes he lost still affected his balance—but he was fast. He was laughing. He looked healthy, his cheeks round and pink.
Elena walked up behind him. She looked like a different person. Her hair was styled, she was wearing a sundress, and she looked rested. Peace looked good on her.
She saw me on the bench.
“Jack!” she called out, waving.
I stood up. I wasn’t in uniform. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I was working now as a liaison for the homeless outreach program the city had started after the story went viral.
Elena hugged me. It was a hug that conveyed more than words ever could.
“We just closed on the house,” she said, beaming. “It has a backyard for Barnaby.”
“That’s great, Elena. Really great.”
Leo ran up, panting, clutching the frisbee. He looked up at me with those same blue eyes. But they weren’t terrified anymore. They were bright.
“Hi, Officer Jack!” he chirped.
“Just Jack, buddy,” I smiled, ruffling his hair.
“Are you going to play with us?”
I looked at the park. I looked at the city skyline in the distance. I looked at the bench that had almost been a tombstone.
“Yeah, Leo,” I said, grabbing the frisbee. “I’m going to play.”
I threw the disc as hard as I could into the summer sky. It soared, catching the wind, flying higher and higher.
We all watched it fly.
I thought about that cold night. I thought about the decision to stop. The decision to care.
It’s funny how life works. You think you’re saving someone else, but in the end, they’re usually the ones saving you.
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