by Sean Cahill
Several days later Frank had an appointment to have his hand examined by a doctor. The office was in a rough area, the kind of neighorhood the homeless had conquered long ago. He walked the quiet street, trying to find the address he’d been given for the practice.
A pair of black SUVs rumbled past, kicking up paper litter in their wake.
Frank carefully examined the building’s street numbers, trying to orient himself.
And when the SUVs passed a second time, gears winding down as they rolled by him, Frank knew something was wrong. He started walking back to his car. Casually at first, and then faster as he heard the sound of the engines coming a third time.
He broke into a run as the vehicles careened around a corner behind him. But there was no use trying to escape—the lead car passed him easily, roaring ahead and cutting him off. The second one came to a screeching stop behind.
Men jumped from the vehicles, nightsticks raised, shouting at him to submit. He cowered against a chain-link fence, putting up his arms to protect his head. Within seconds, blows rained down on him as he yelled and tried to fend off the attackers. His clothing caught on the fence, snagged, tore.
Fists and nightsticks struck his limbs, his shoulders. A few glanced off his head.
Hands grabbed him, forced him to the pavement. A boot pressed his face into the sidewalk, the pressure feeling like it was going to crack his skull.
“Stop!” he coughed. “I’m one of you!”
Someone rifled through his pockets, took out his phone and wallet. He heard laughter, the sound of another person approaching. This new person’s footsteps were calm, casual.
Their leader.
“Well, it seems downtown still has a few bums left after all. I told you boys, they’re like roaches—if you see one, there’s a hundred more waiting in the walls.”
“Open my wallet,” heaved Frank through fish lips, cheeks squished to the pavement. “I’m not homeless. Look at my ID.”
Silence followed. No one moved. Finally, the leader spoke.
“Looks like you don’t have a wallet, friend.”
“Check my phone. The NIS app…”
“No phone, either.”
The other men laughed.
Frank’s mind raced. What could this mean? They’d just taken both of those things from him, they had them in their possession. If only someone would look, they would know he was a family man, a volunteer.
“Pick him up,” said the leader.
More hands. Frank was lifted to his knees, pushed back against the chain-link fence. He saw them now, the faces of his captors. They were teenagers. Early twenties at most. His stomach sank – why were they doing this? Surely there was someone here he could reason with. Some adult who would understand.
The leader stepped forward. He wore a red vest, like Frank’s unit leader. He couldn’t be more than 20. He produced an old sock from his vest pocket. Something heavy sagged in the toe.
“The only thing we hate more than liars are bums, mister.”
“But I’m not a bum,” Frank begged. “I own a home, I have a wife and kid. You can call her, I’ll give you the number. I can show you my NSI app—“
The young man wound up, windmilling the bludgeon, and smashed it over the top of Frank’s skull as the other boys laughed.
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