“Are we done?” Agrippa asked. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but in the sudden silence of the park, it sounded like thunder. The two remaining bullies didn’t speak. They didn’t even check on their friends. They turned and bolted, scrambling up the grassy hill so fast they tripped over each other, leaving their dirt bike, their friends, and their pride behind. Agrippa watched them go until they disappeared over the crest of the hill. Only then did he let out a slow, controlled breath.
He unclasped his hands, shaking them out, feeling the familiar ache returning to his knuckles. The adrenaline was receding, and the pain in his lower back was already creeping in to replace it. He didn’t look at the three groaning bodies on the ground. He turned slowly, the predatory grace vanishing, replaced once again by the stooped shoulders of a tired man. He looked toward the sandbox. Larry was still sitting there. He had dropped his yellow dump truck. His big dark eyes were wide, staring at Agrippa. Agrippa’s heart, which hadn’t spiked once during the fight, suddenly hammered against his ribs.
He felt a sickening wave of guilt. He had tried to protect his son, but he had exposed him to the very monster he tried so hard to keep buried. Agrippa wiped his hands on his jeans, suddenly terrified of what his son saw when he looked at him. “Larry,” Agrippa said, his voice cracking. He took a hesitant step forward, suddenly feeling clumsy and large. “Larry, I’m… It’s okay.”
Larry stared at the bodies, then back to his father. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He reached down, picked up his yellow dump truck, stood up, and walked over to Agrippa. Larry reached out his small hand and wrapped his fingers around Agrippa’s thick, calloused thumb. “Time to go home?” Larry asked quietly. Agrippa looked down at his son, feeling a lump the size of a golf ball form in his throat. He squeezed the small hand gently.
“Yeah, buddy,” Agrippa whispered. “Time to go home.” Agrippa didn’t make it to his truck before the distant rising wail of sirens cut through the hum of the interstate. Someone in the overlooking brick apartment complex had undoubtedly seen the encounter. Or more likely, they had seen the sudden explosive end of it. When you drop three human beings onto concrete in under 10 seconds, it tends to draw an audience. Agrippa stopped at the edge of the parking lot. His 2011 Ford F-150, rusted around the wheel wells and dusted with sawdust, sat 30 yards away.