No one honked. No officer shouted. A bicyclist waited patiently at the far side until Harlan had passed. The ordinary absence of trouble left him unexpectedly emotional. He stopped outside Bennett's Bakery and sat for a moment beneath the small brass bell, listening to the sounds of traffic that no longer required him to defend his right to be there.
Lila emerged carrying a broom and a cardboard box. She saw him and smiled. "You're early. I was saving your rye until four."
"I found myself with a free afternoon," he answered. "I thought I'd risk being predictable."
"Well, if you're going to be predictable, you might as well be well fed."
She set the box on a bench and reached inside. From beneath a layer of tissue paper she lifted a jar of amber honey with the same golden label he remembered. A local beekeeper had delivered a fresh batch that morning. Lila had set one aside because she thought the gesture might be welcome, then worried it might remind him of something he wished to forget. Now she held it out carefully, allowing him to decide.
"I saved this for you," she said. "No charge. Consider it a thank-you for bringing a little excitement to an otherwise boring neighborhood."
Harlan laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "I think we've had enough excitement to last us several years. And I'll pay for the honey. You have a business to run."
"Then pay for the bread, and we'll negotiate the honey later."
He accepted the jar and studied the label. The glass was cool beneath his fingers. He remembered the awful sound it had made when the first jar shattered, and for one moment the crosswalk returned in his mind with uncomfortable clarity. Then Lila was asking about Simone, and the present came back into focus. He thanked her and placed the honey securely in the bag beside the bread, checking the strap twice before letting go.
"The streets feel different," Lila said, looking toward Fourth Avenue.
Harlan followed her gaze. "Some things are different. The rest we'll have to keep working on."
She nodded. They both knew that one conviction and several new policies did not erase years of neglect. People would still make mistakes, and some would still abuse authority. The task was to make those acts harder to excuse, easier to report, and more likely to bring fair consequences. That was less satisfying than claiming the town had been permanently transformed. It was also more believable.
As Harlan prepared to leave, a schoolboy approached the bakery with a bicycle beside him. The boy recognized Harlan from a photograph in the local newspaper and stopped awkwardly near the doorway. He asked whether Harlan was the man who used to work for the FBI. Harlan said yes, a long time ago. The boy looked at the wheelchair and asked whether he had ever been scared while doing his job.