He continued along Elm Street, slowing where the sidewalk rose beneath a tree root and stopping for a mother lifting a stroller around a delivery truck. The afternoon smelled of warm bread, cut grass, and distant diesel. A few storefronts farther on, a teenager sat on a bench with an untied shoe, watching videos through headphones. Harlan noticed all of it without assigning particular meaning. He had no reason to believe that anyone else was paying attention to him.
At the intersection with Fourth Avenue, the pedestrian signal illuminated. Harlan looked left, right, then left again. He pressed the joystick gently, and his wheelchair crossed the curb ramp with a familiar low vibration. The far side of the intersection was only a short distance away. He could have reached it well within the signal if the canvas bag had remained where he placed it.
The paper wrapping around the bread shifted against the honey jar. Harlan made an instinctive movement to catch the bag, and the jar rolled over its edge. For a fraction of a second it balanced against his thigh. Then it fell, struck the white paint of the crosswalk, and burst into amber syrup and thick glass fragments. The crack was loud enough to turn the head of a woman waiting outside the pharmacy. Harlan stopped at once.
"Well, that was foolish," he murmured to himself.
He checked the traffic light. Vehicles were still stopped, although the pedestrian countdown had begun. The scattered glass lay directly in his path and near the line where a bicycle wheel might pass. He knew he could not safely retrieve every shard from his chair, but he had a small cleaning rag and planned to push the larger pieces aside while moving toward the curb. The safest choice would have been to ask a passerby for help. He realized that a second too late, already reaching toward the storage pouch beside his right knee.
The engine came first, rising in pitch. Then the police cruiser rounded the corner too quickly for the narrow commercial street and braked hard. The vehicle stopped a short distance from the wheelchair. Its front tires chirped, and Caleb grabbed the dashboard instinctively. Harlan looked up into the windshield, made eye contact with the driver, and lifted his left palm in a gesture that meant wait a moment. He pointed at the broken glass so the reason would be obvious.
Derek Langford did not look at the glass. He looked at the seated Black man in his lane, then at the hand raised toward him, and understood both as defiance. The cruiser horn blared across the block, drowning out the bakery bell and the sound of a nearby truck backing into an alley. Several pedestrians turned. Harlan startled at the noise, then held his arm still until the horn stopped.
"He dropped something," Caleb said quickly. "We can help him clear the lane."
"He's holding up traffic," Derek answered. "That's what he's doing. Thinks he can park wherever he wants."
"The crosswalk signal was on," Caleb said. "I saw it when we turned."