Callahan's smile was tight. "Do you live around here?"
"I do."
"Got ID to prove that?"
Solomon leaned back slightly, measuring the young man. "Georgia law doesn't require me to show ID unless I'm suspected of committing a crime."
Callahan's jaw tightened. His hand drifted near his holster, not to draw, but to remind Solomon of the authority he believed he carried. The power play had begun.
"You're fitting the description of someone we got complaints about," Callahan said, lying.
Solomon raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Elderly historian sitting quietly on a bench with arthritis and a newspaper? Must be a real crime wave out here."
The sarcasm did not sit well. Neither did the calm. Bullies do not like mirrors.
"I'm going to have to ask you to stand up," Callahan said, "so I can search that bag."
"No, you're not," Solomon replied, his voice low but ironclad.
Callahan's eyes narrowed. "You refusing to cooperate?"
"I'm refusing to be harassed."
Around them, the park continued as if nothing unusual were happening. A couple tossed a Frisbee. A dog barked at ducks in the fountain. Life moved as if history were not being rerun in real time, as if a familiar tragedy were not quietly staging itself on that patch of grass.
Then Callahan reached for Solomon's arm. Not roughly, but firmly, intending to assert dominance.
In one swift, startling motion, Solomon stood up, steadier than expected. He did not shove. He did not curse. He simply spoke six words, soft as a whisper and sharp as a blade.
"You don't know who I am."
The moment froze.
Callahan scoffed. "I don't care who you are."