It stays with you. Not the shouting. Not the paperwork. The weight. That’s what I remember. Knee down. Palms flat. Concrete warm from the day. His breath going thin under me like air leaking from a puncture. He keeps saying he’s scared. I tell him to stop resisting. Training says control the arms. Control the hips. Control the scene. So I do. Sirens wash the street in blue. Blue on the windows. Blue on his face. There’s a phone near his hand. Still filming the sky. Clouds drifting past like nothing’s happening down here. He says he can’t breathe. I’ve heard it before. You learn to file it away. Background noise. Like traffic. Then he goes quiet. And quiet is worse. We roll him over. His hood slips back. And the world does something strange — like it’s missed a step on the stairs. Because I know that face. Not from the street. From a smaller room. From nightlights and scraped knees and a voice asking for one more story. It’s my son. Or it was. The blue lights keep flashing like they’re celebrating something. Someone says my name. Not “Officer.” My name. The one he used when he was little. And suddenly I’m not holding a suspect. I’m holding the boy who used to fit in one arm. The boy who thought sirens meant help was coming. The phone is still filming the sky. Just blue. Just endless. Just open. Like a picture in a children’s book — And the sky stayed bright and wide, and the brave men kept the streets safe, and everyone slept soundly in their beds. The end.