The Silence After the Shove

I keep replaying the moment Gideon’s shoulder hit mine. The workers saw it. They looked away with the particular discipline of people who have decided whose trouble is not worth their wages, and I hated how quickly I understood them. I wanted one of them to say something. I wanted Ruth to hear about it too, though I cannot decide whether I wanted protection or proof that I was worth defending.

Gideon was not subtle. He was cheap. The worst part was that his fear of being replaced by a paid stranger told me Ruth matters to him, and I could have been petty enough to use that. Instead, I stood there like an idiot while he made me choose between backing down and making an ugly scene in front of the entrance.

My shoulder aches more than it should. I keep pressing it as if I can convince the bruise to explain what happened. Nothing about the wall explains why I feel the shove more than his words. Family. As if family is a bloodline badge. As if I drove into someone’s last days merely to collect money and leave again.

I am good at leaving. That is exactly why his accusation stung. There are worse versions of me, and he did not need to describe them.

The truck panel is damaged, the chain photographs are spread across my mind, and tomorrow still requires me to decide whom to approach. I am tired, but not sleepy enough to escape into the roof of the truck. I keep thinking that silence can protect a person and still make them complicit.