The late afternoon sun hung over Centennial Park like a burning coin, turning the concrete paths gold and drawing the smell of warm grass from the earth. Children shouted near the playground. Joggers passed beneath the old oak trees. Somewhere beyond the basketball court, a dog barked at a squirrel that had already escaped into the branches.
For most people, it was an ordinary Tuesday.
For Agrippa Fisher, ordinary was something he had learned to appreciate.
At thirty-nine, Agrippa looked older than his years. His beard had begun to gray around the chin, a thin scar ran beneath his left eye, and his faded work shirt carried the permanent smell of sawdust and engine oil. His boots were worn at the heels. His left knee hurt whenever he sat too long, and his lower back complained after every shift at the lumberyard.
He was not the kind of man strangers remembered.
That suited him perfectly.
On the bench beside him sat a small backpack covered in cartoon dinosaurs. A half-empty bottle of water rested near his right boot, and a paper bag contained an apple, two sandwiches, and a packet of crackers that his six-year-old son, Larry, insisted tasted better than anything else in the world.
Larry was currently kneeling in the sandbox, constructing what he described as the largest truck depot in the history of civilization.
Agrippa watched him with the quiet attention of a man who had learned that the most important moments in life rarely announced themselves.
"How's the construction business going, boss?" Agrippa called.
Larry didn't look up.
"Terrible."
"Terrible?"
"The workers keep making mistakes."
Agrippa pressed his lips together to hide a smile. "Have you considered hiring better workers?"
"I fired them."
"All of them?"
"All of them."
"Sounds expensive."
Larry finally glanced over his shoulder. His brown hair stuck up in three different directions, and a streak of sand crossed his cheek.
"Dad, they're imaginary workers."
"Well, that explains why they never show up on time."
Larry laughed.
It was a small sound, bright and uncomplicated, and Agrippa felt the familiar warmth in his chest. For six years, he had been trying to protect that sound from the world.
Since his wife, Elena, died, he had become Larry's entire universe. He prepared breakfast, packed lunches, attended parent-teacher meetings, learned which stuffed animal was required for difficult nights, and memorized the precise way Larry liked his sandwiches cut.
He had also learned how to explain death to a child who kept asking when his mother would return.
Some questions had no good answers.
Agrippa had discovered that being a father meant answering them anyway.
He checked his watch. They had forty minutes before they needed to head home, where he would prepare dinner, help Larry with his reading, and persuade him that bathing did not constitute a violation of his human rights.
It would be a good evening.
A quiet one.
That was all Agrippa wanted.
Then the sound of an engine shattered the peace.
A dirt bike roared along the path near the park entrance, its exhaust cracking through the air. Five young men followed it toward the playground. The rider cut the engine beside a flower bed, scattering gravel across the soil and crushing several orange marigolds beneath the front tire.
The man leading the group laughed.
"Beautiful parking job, Trent," one of his friends said.
Trent Maddox swung off the bike and spread his arms.
"You're welcome. That's what talent looks like."
The others laughed too loudly.
Trent was twenty-five, broad-shouldered, and accustomed to being the loudest person in every room. He wore an expensive black watch, white sneakers, and a sleeveless shirt that revealed thick arms covered in tattoos. His smile possessed the careless confidence of someone who had rarely faced consequences he could not talk his way out of.
Beside him walked Mason Pike, a narrow-faced man with a tattoo climbing the side of his neck. Mason filmed nearly everything on his phone, convinced that the internet was waiting for his next moment of brilliance.
The remaining three were Cole, Denny, and Bryce.
Cole was a former high school wrestler who enjoyed reminding people about victories nobody else remembered. Denny was restless and eager to prove himself. Bryce, the quietest of the group, generally followed whoever seemed most likely to protect him from becoming the next target.
They had spent the afternoon drinking behind a closed automotive shop.
Now they wanted entertainment.
Trent surveyed the park.
"Place is dead."
"Then let's make it interesting," Mason replied, lifting his phone.
Their attention moved across the playground, past the empty basketball court, and toward the wooden bench where Agrippa sat.
Trent smiled.
"Look at that."
Agrippa noticed the movement but returned his attention to Larry.