Not mechanics’ uniforms.
Real ones.
A patrol car sat outside with its lights off, like the officers didn’t want a scene but also didn’t want to be alone.
And there, against the painted cinderblock wall, was Mac.
Hands spread, palms flat.
Not cuffed. Not slammed. Not hurt.
But still—posed like a suspect.
His old army jacket hung on him the way it always did, like a memory he couldn’t quite grow out of.
Except today, his shoulders were rigid.
His jaw was tight.
And his eyes—those tired, kind eyes—were fixed on the floor like he’d decided not to give anybody the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.
I stopped so hard my boots squeaked on the oil-stained concrete.
“What is this?” I said, and I hated how sharp my voice sounded.
One of the younger employees—fresh out of tech school, eager, nervous—hovered near the tool chest, face pale.
He wouldn’t look at me.
The older officer turned. He had that calm voice cops use when they’re trying to keep everyone’s blood pressure low.
“Sir, we got a call about a…a man trespassing. Someone reported—”
“Someone reported Mac,” I cut in, because I didn’t need the rest.
Mac didn’t move.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t plead.
Which, in a way, was worse.
Because it told me he’d been here before—standing still, waiting to be sorted into a category someone else picked.
The officer’s gaze flicked to my logo-less work shirt, the keys in my hand, the way the employees subtly shifted when I walked in.
“You the owner?”
“I am.”
He nodded once.
“Okay. Then do you know him?”
I stepped forward.
Mac’s hands stayed on the wall. His knuckles were white.
“I do,” I said. “That’s Mac. He works here. He’s been working here for months.”
The younger officer looked surprised.
The older officer didn’t. He looked…tired.
Like he’d heard every version of this story, and most of them didn’t end well.
“Someone said he was going through vehicles out back,” the younger officer said.
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