"That's one of the reasons this job matters."
The boy frowned.
"How?"
The commissioner leaned forward.
"Because people shouldn't need special status to receive proper treatment."
The teenager studied him.
Then asked, "Do you think I could become a police officer?"
The commissioner smiled.
"Do you want to?"
The boy hesitated.
"Maybe."
"Then learn about the work. Ask questions. Talk to officers who serve their communities well."
The student nodded.
The commissioner continued.
"And remember that wearing a uniform doesn't make you better than the person standing in front of you."
The boy smiled.
"Okay."
Then he asked one final question.
"Are you still angry about what happened?"
The commissioner paused.
He could have given an easy answer.
Claimed he'd forgiven everything.
Pretended the memory no longer bothered him.
But he didn't want to teach the boy that strength meant denying emotions.
He looked toward him.
"Sometimes."
The teenager nodded.
The commissioner continued.
"But I don't want anger making my decisions."
He smiled faintly.
"That's something my father taught me."
The boy considered.
Then smiled.
"Sounds like he was smart."
The commissioner's eyes softened.
"He was."
The teenager thanked him.
Then left.
And the commissioner stood quietly for a moment, remembering a man who repaired school buses and taught his son that being loud was not the same thing as being right.
The commissioner returned to Pine Hollow Road on the anniversary of the encounter.
He didn't announce the visit.
Didn't bring a television crew.
And didn't ask anyone to prepare the location.
He drove his own SUV along the familiar stretch of asphalt during a beautiful late afternoon.
The trees stood nearly bare.
The sky was clear.
And the setting sun colored the fields beyond the old wooden fence.
As he approached the bend, he slowed.
The gravel shoulder looked different.
County maintenance workers had improved the drainage.
The fallen road marker had been replaced.
And the low area where water once collected had been reshaped to prevent repeated pooling.
He parked in a safe designated turnout.
Then stepped out.
For several seconds, he stood beside the road.
He wore a slate-gray polo shirt.
Beige khaki trousers.
And the same silver wristwatch he'd worn a year earlier.
He hadn't chosen the clothes deliberately.
Only after stepping out did he realize how closely they resembled what he'd been wearing that evening.
He looked toward the shoulder.