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She didn’t answer, instead pushing past the police officer and staring at her shattered window. “You broke it! You broke my damn car!”
Marcus blinked. “Your daughter was locked inside. She could’ve died. The paramedics just took her!”
“I was gone for five minutes!” she screamed. “You had no right!”
The officers quickly stepped in, separating them. One of them asked for Marcus’s ID.
“Wait, are you serious?” Marcus asked, looking between the cops and the woman, who was now crying angrily as she inspected the damage.
“You’re detaining me? For saving her?”
“We’re not detaining you,” the officer replied. “We just need to get statements from both sides.”
And just like that, the narrative shifted. What started as an act of heroism was now under scrutiny. The woman was accusing him of damaging her property without permission. Even though witnesses backed Marcus up — even though the 911 call and the store’s CCTV would surely support him — the tone of the situation had changed.
Marcus sat down on the curb, dazed. The paramedics were still working on the girl, and the mother was now on the phone, pacing angrily. A part of him wanted to walk away, to avoid the headache, the questions, the potential charges. But he stayed, because that little girl had needed help — and he was the only one who had acted.
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Still, as the police officer approached him again with a notepad, Marcus couldn’t shake the bitter taste in his mouth.
He had done the right thing. But suddenly, the right thing didn’t feel right anymore.
Marcus didn’t sleep that night.
Even after the police had finished taking statements, even after they assured him he was free to go, the feeling of unease clung to him like a wet shirt. His hands still felt like they were vibrating hours later, as if the tire iron was still in his grip. He kept replaying the moment the glass shattered, the child’s flushed face, the mother’s screaming. Again. And again.
The next morning, his phone buzzed with a text from his manager.
“Need to talk. Call me before you come in.”
His stomach sank.
