He came home light—one bag, no ceremony, no appetite for stories. He’d learned to move through crowds without being noticed, to keep his eyes up and his mouth shut. The country was loud. He didn’t feel like joining it.
At the coffee shop, he stood in line and let the routine do the talking: wallet out, order ready, shoulders squared. A man behind him clocked the posture, hat and the haircut and decided he’d found someone safe to unload on.
“You think you’re a hero,” the man said. Not a question. A verdict.
The returning man didn’t rise to it. He’d been trained on worse than insults. “I’m just buying coffee,” he said, calm, even. He didn’t turn it into a scene. He didn’t give the guy the adrenaline he came in hunting.
That should have ended it. But the man stepped closer, voice louder, feeding off the silence in the room. “You people do what you’re told and call it honor.”
The returning man held his ground. He didn’t flinch, didn’t posture, didn’t explain himself. He’d made his peace with the fact that some people didn’t want answers—they wanted a target.
The man spit.
It hit his cheek. Hot. Sticky. Stupid.
For half a second the room froze, waiting for the explosion. He didn’t give them one.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—neat, folded—wiped his face once, and set it back like it was just another mess to clean up. Then he took his coffee, left exact change, and walked out without looking back.
Outside, he paused at the window. The cap on his head wasn’t what they thought it was. No unit. No war. No eagle.
Plain blue. White letters.
ICE.
He adjusted the brim and kept walking, because the job didn’t come with parades. Just assumptions, a long memory, and people who spit first and ask questions never.
At the coffee shop, he stood in line and let the routine do the talking: wallet out, order ready, shoulders squared. A man behind him clocked the posture, hat and the haircut and decided he’d found someone safe to unload on.
“You think you’re a hero,” the man said. Not a question. A verdict.
The returning man didn’t rise to it. He’d been trained on worse than insults. “I’m just buying coffee,” he said, calm, even. He didn’t turn it into a scene. He didn’t give the guy the adrenaline he came in hunting.
That should have ended it. But the man stepped closer, voice louder, feeding off the silence in the room. “You people do what you’re told and call it honor.”
The returning man held his ground. He didn’t flinch, didn’t posture, didn’t explain himself. He’d made his peace with the fact that some people didn’t want answers—they wanted a target.
The man spit.
It hit his cheek. Hot. Sticky. Stupid.
For half a second the room froze, waiting for the explosion. He didn’t give them one.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—neat, folded—wiped his face once, and set it back like it was just another mess to clean up. Then he took his coffee, left exact change, and walked out without looking back.
Outside, he paused at the window. The cap on his head wasn’t what they thought it was. No unit. No war. No eagle.
Plain blue. White letters.
ICE.
He adjusted the brim and kept walking, because the job didn’t come with parades. Just assumptions, a long memory, and people who spit first and ask questions never.
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