Tuesday evening. The concrete path of Centennial Park was warm under the fading sun.
Agrippa sat on the wooden bench, his lower back throbbing with its familiar rhythm. He had a fresh bandage over his left eyebrow and a heavy limp in his right leg, but the suffocating weight that usually rested on his shoulders was gone.
A few feet away, Larry was meticulously backing his bright yellow plastic dump truck up to a small mound of sand. The boy paused, picked up a perfectly smooth pebble, and placed it exactly in the center of his construction. He looked back at his father and offered a rare, genuine smile.
Agrippa smiled back. The world wasn't kind to quiet things, he knew that better than anyone. But as long as he had breath in his lungs and strength in his hands, he would be the wall that kept the noise out. He leaned back on the bench, watching his son find order in the dirt, and for the first time in a very long time, Agrippa Fisher felt at peace.