Derek did not reply. He released his seatbelt, threw open the driver's door, and stepped into the road with the abrupt energy of a man who had already decided how the encounter would end. Caleb followed, first checking the lane behind them because other vehicles were beginning to collect at the intersection. He caught sight of the glass at Harlan's wheels. A simple hazard, he thought. Thirty seconds of assistance, perhaps a traffic cone, and everyone could go home.
But Derek had never liked simple answers when a display of authority was available. His boots struck the asphalt heavily, and he stopped close enough that Harlan could see his own reflection in the mirrored sunglasses. One hand rested near his duty belt. His other hand jabbed toward the sidewalk. He did not begin with a question.
"Move that thing," he ordered. "Right now."
Harlan lifted his eyes and studied him. He had seen the rigid shoulders, the narrowed mouth, and the controlled breathing of men approaching a confrontation they wanted rather than needed. He could feel the old work habits waking in his mind, but they did not make him fearless. He was a disabled man in a heavy motorized chair, facing an armed officer in the middle of a street. There were things this situation could do to him that no calm voice could prevent.
"Good afternoon, Officer," he said. "My jar broke. There's glass in the crossing. I need a moment to clear the largest pieces and get safely to the curb."
"That's not an explanation I asked for," Derek snapped. "I told you to move."
"I intend to," Harlan replied. "I'm trying not to leave a hazard behind."
"Then you should have thought about that before blocking traffic."
Caleb stepped closer, keeping a little distance from the chair. "Sir, if you want, I can move the glass with my boot and guide you out of the intersection." He spoke to Harlan, not Derek. It was the first genuinely useful offer anyone in uniform had made.
"Thank you," Harlan said. "That would help."
Derek turned on his trainee. "Did I ask you to take over? Get back by the car." Caleb stopped. Harlan watched the change in the younger man's face, the brief hurt replaced by something harder to identify. The rookie did not move to the cruiser, but he did not continue toward the glass either.
"You heard me," Derek said, facing Harlan again. "Get out of the road, or I'll cite you for obstruction."
"I crossed on the permitted signal," Harlan answered. "I am willing to accept assistance. I'm not willing to damage my chair or anyone else's tires to satisfy your impatience."
The sentence was measured. Derek heard only the refusal. A man accustomed to treating his own irritation as evidence of wrongdoing has little patience with careful distinctions. He leaned toward Harlan, close enough that the embroidered name on his uniform filled the older man's field of view, and said that people in Oakridge did not get to decide when an officer's directions mattered. Harlan thought of the small group gathering on the sidewalk and made himself keep both hands visible.
"I understand lawful instructions," Harlan said. "I spent much of my adult life helping enforce the law. Please step back and allow us to clear the hazard."