A police cruiser entered the park access road four minutes later.
Jordan noticed the flashing lights first.
He smiled.
At seven, police cars still belonged partly to the world of school visits, stickers, cartoons, and officers letting children look inside cruisers during community events.
Then the vehicle stopped beside him.
Two officers stepped out.
Officer Grant Holloway was white, forty-eight, broad-shouldered, and had been with the department for nearly eighteen years. Officer Devin Morris was Black, thirty-one, and had worked patrol for less than four years. Neither officer had been told that the “suspicious person” in the call was this small.
Holloway looked toward Jordan.
Jordan looked back.
“Hey, buddy.”
Jordan stood.
“Hi.”
“Where are your parents?”
Jordan pointed toward the entrance.
“They’re coming.”
“When?”
“My dad said five minutes.”
Holloway glanced toward Morris.
“Where were you coming from?”
Jordan pointed behind him.
“Basketball.”
“At the recreation center?”
Jordan nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Morris noticed the basketball clipped to the backpack.
“What’s your name?”
“Jordan.”
“Jordan what?”
“Jordan Ellis.”
Holloway looked around.
“You here by yourself?”
Jordan’s expression changed.
“My coach walked me to the park.”
“Where’s your coach now?”
“He went back.”
“Why would he leave you here?”
Jordan looked confused.
“Because my mom and dad are coming.”
The answer sounded perfectly reasonable to Jordan.
Holloway did not seem satisfied.
“Do you know your address?”
Jordan nodded proudly.
“Fourteen twenty-eight Sycamore Avenue.”
Morris looked toward Holloway.
“That’s maybe four blocks.”
Jordan heard the number and smiled slightly.
“I know where my house is.”
Holloway pointed toward the backpack.
“What’s in there?”
“My stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Basketball stuff.”
Jordan paused.
“And crackers.”
Morris almost smiled.
Holloway did not.
“Can you put the backpack down?”
Jordan’s smile disappeared.
“Why?”
“We need to make sure everything’s okay.”
Jordan slowly slipped the backpack from his shoulders and placed it beside his shoes.
The police car suddenly did not feel exciting anymore.
He looked around for his parents.
They were not there yet.
“Am I in trouble?”
Morris answered quickly.
“No, buddy.”
Holloway added, “We’re just figuring out why somebody called.”
Jordan’s eyes widened.
“Somebody called about me?”
Neither officer answered immediately.
Jordan looked down.
His small fingers curled inside his sleeves.
Holloway crouched slightly.
“Do you have anything in the backpack that doesn’t belong to you?”
Jordan looked confused.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can we look?”
Jordan had no idea what he was supposed to say.
He was seven.
Adults asked questions.
Children answered.
He nodded uncertainly.
“I guess.”
Holloway opened the backpack.
Jordan watched him pull out the practice shoes.
Then the jersey.