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Chapter 13:

"...This marks the eighth brutal murder in as many weeks," the reporter states confidently through the television, "and the third predator murderer apprehended by the ZPD, though countless individuals have been reported missing. As of yet, City Hall and the Office of the Commissioner have yet to offer a concrete cause for the rise in homicides amongst the predator population, but offer up the following warnings: Beware of those around you. Be cautious of predators acting strangely. Keep them away from children and the elderly. Finally, Mayor Bellwether urges every prey species to remain vigilant. It is unknown when, where, or how the next lunatic will strike. This is Antony Grasswallow reporting for ZBC, back to you in the studio."

A group of wary patrons hangs under the television playing behind the counter. Consisting mostly of middle aged and younger mammals, mostly ones just coming off their shifts, they all lean forward in their seats enraptured by the news. A couple are dressed in uniforms, drab and torn from a day of work, or cheap suits. Like me, I bet they work in the finer offices and businesses Downtown and then commute to the more affordable outer districts.

They murmur as the reporter, who was standing in front of City Hall, cuts the feed to the studio somewhere Downtown. While the anchor continues on with his spiel unabated by the noise in this diner, the crowd begins to disperse. They return to their meals, or to their jobs, with the sound of silverware on plates followed soon after by quiet chatter. The waitress that helped me, a very pretty impala, steps away as well. She seems worried, but manages to hide it well. It's the eyelashes that give it away, and the twitch in her ears.

The reporter is accurate. Three predators gone completely nutso, though only one was a serial killer, and I'm not including the ones who just became 'unhinged'. Like Joffer, all of his victims seemed to be prey, but unlike Joffer, he seemed to have been hunting them for food and for sport. None of it makes any sense to me. Predators don't commit the kind of crimes that many prey species can get away with. The tame collars, for their flaws, keep most of that from happening, because the moment your heart rate rises, or your adrenaline spikes: shock. The only pred murderers are cold, collected, detached, and unfeeling. Sociopaths. And you don't find more than a handful of animals that are true sociopaths like that, regardless of culinary habits.

I need to stop thinking about work so much. Then again, I wish I had something else to think about. Jackie stopped outside to make a phone call, and is currently stuffed into the booth corresponding to his species' size. He told me he needed to call Bastion, to tie up that case. And while from behind the diner's wide glass window and the privacy door on the booth I hear nothing, I can guess how the phone call is going.

The expressions that dance across Jackie's face, as well as the letters he draws with the smoke trailing from the Bucky he lit about three minutes ago, Bastion must be going through every stage of grief over the telephone. First comes shock, Jackie miming a 'stop, stop, stop' motion into the booth. Then comes bargaining, with Jackie shaking his head and leaning on the wall. Next it's anger, with the handset being held away from his head while his ears fold back. Lastly, it's sorrow, which Jackie takes standing still, his lips motionless. With every change of mood, Jackie becomes more visibly beaten down until he's finally off the phone.

When he's finally outside, he throws his back against the closed door of the booth and heaves a sigh of relief. It makes me wonder why he does this job at all, though a part of me can already guess. I've said it before and I'll say it again, watching him makes me think he's a police officer out of uniform. It makes me sad he can't serve with me, he'd make a fine partner.

The waitress, that pretty impala, already brought me my water. What's odd is that I had to convince her to not only bring another menu, but another glass as well. I don't recognize her from when I usually eat at this place, but, I must be familiar to her. She gives me this odd look, as if I'm pulling her leg. Only when I insist does she relent. Maybe she thinks I'm eating alone once again and just pretending otherwise. The Pasture, a diner off of one of Herd Street's side streets, is a place I frequent quite often.

I tell myself that it's for the aging chrome art deco stylings, barely comfortable faux-leather seats, and relatively inexpensive menu. But, the real reason is that it's directly across the street from my apartment, and that I could burn down my building just trying to boil water. Plus, it doesn't hurt that the portion sizes are more than generous.

Jackie crosses the sidewalk after a moment's rest and deposits the butt of his cigarette into the receptacle just outside. As he enters the building, the bell above the door frame jingles. A large flock of sheep who sit across from me becomes very quiet, watching as the coyote who has just entered their midst rounds the back of the booth seat just inside the door and slides in across from me. I give him a moment to take a sip from his drink before even considering to ask him how that went.

"What's he doing here?" A voice whispers loudly.

"Bastion didn't know," Jackie says, putting his glass of water down again, "about his girlfriend's murder, I mean. He already pretty much knew she was cheating, but, didn't know the path she went down. He thought he saw the news on TV over breakfast, but, it didn't click until I called. Poor guy. It's gonna be a really hard week for him."

"Is that blood around his shoulder?" Another one pipes up. "Is it his?"

I swallow hard, watching as some of the rams in the booth across the aisle from us begin to shuffle around, pushing their families into the center. One of the males, dressed in a cheap suit, goes to get up, but is pulled down by another at the table. Jackie doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he isn't letting on. I hope he doesn't.

"I can't believe he wasn't the one notified," I tell him, only half genuinely.

"Well, apparently she had relatives living nearby, and they went to the blood relative first," Jackie explains. "They weren't married and she never changed any of her emergency contact information at work to his name. So, he didn't get the hat-in-hand visit from the boys in blue. I wasn't expecting a bonus from him anyways, but, I suppose there's always hope. I just wish it wasn't me that had to tell him that. Jesus Capybara."

"You should say something," a ewe voice hisses, "his kind shouldn't be allowed in here. You heard the news!"

"Yeah, what if he's the next to go mad? He'll go right for the lambs," another one adds to the chorus. "Just look at him. Damn, dirty coyote. I can't believe they let his kind on the street."

"Just be quiet," one of the rams commands quietly. "Maybe that predo with him will keep him in line. Just be quiet and it'll be fine. There's too many of us here, he can't hurt us when we're together. Stick to the flock."

I feel myself go cold and grab my upper arm with my free hand and try to turn my head away. Jackie doesn't say anything, and his face doesn't even let on that he's heard anything. I know canines have very sensitive sight and smell, but I think maybe my ears might be more acute than his. I hope so, I don't want him to hear that. Not here, not now.

Over Jackie's shoulder, I see the waitress round the corner, which makes me calm down. We can just order our food and be on with our night. She has nothing in her hands and chats up a few of the tables she passes on the other side of the room before continuing on to where we sit. She's a cheery one, relatively young, though older than either I or Jackie are. She's been pleasant enough so far.

But as she notices that the other side of the booth has been magically filled with a living being and not some imaginary creature or stuffed animal, the look on her face seems to change. It's a mixture of surprise and confusion that seems oddly familiar to me. But she doesn't stop walking, simply continuing towards our side of the dining room.

As she crosses the foyer, somebody from the group across the way clears their throat and she turns to them to serve them first. She approaches the table and the large ram in the cheap suit leans across the table and begins whispering to her. I use the word 'whispering' very loosely, as he's loud enough for not only us to hear, but probably the whole building.

"I did not come here after work to have to deal with--with that," the ram insists, hissing through clenched teeth.

"I'm so sorry, sir," the waitress replies courteously.

"You better be sorry," a ewe says, cupping a hand around her muzzle. "Have you seen the news? Some jaguar tore apart seven people uptown, that leopard mutilates somebody in Happy Town, and now they're saying every predator in this city could go the same way. I don't feel safe."

"I'm going to handle it, ma'am, don't worry," the waitress whispers, barely audible.

"Thank you," the other ram says.

The waitress nods with an uneasy smile and then turns around towards us. Jackie seems to sense whatever is coming and doesn't look towards either I or the waitress.

"I'm so sorry," the waitress says, looking to me first, then glancing to Jackie quickly. "I think there must have been some kind of mistake."

"Oh, no mistake whatsoever," I tell her, laughing nervously. "The other person I was waiting for is her now, so, we're ready to order."

Jackie doesn't look up. He begins to peruse over the menu on his side of the table, which is several pages thick and printed on large, laminated sheets of paper. It's almost as if he's actively ignoring the waitress now. While I wish I could say I don't know why, the reason eats at the back of my head. The table across from us is silent, as it a lot of the restaurant. All eyes are on us, or maybe it just feels that way.

"No, I meant that there must be some mistake on your part, ma'am," the waitress says, trying her best to stay cheery. "You see, we generally don't cater to, ugh, carnivore tastes. Our menu is pretty limited when it comes to non-vegetarian palates."

"Well, that's fine," Jackie finally says quite calmly, lifting his menu slightly from the table to bury his nose in it. "As you know, canines are omnivores, not carnivores. Your menu should be fine."

"Sir, I think you may be happier eating somewhere else," the waitress repeats herself, this time becoming less cheery and more insistent. "There's another diner three blocks over on Lionheart Avenue, the Roaring Waters, which you should find is a little more prepared to cater to your tastes. Alternatively, you could always eat at the Bugburga around the corner."

Jackie doesn't look up this time, and he doesn't immediately reply. My mind skips several beats as I try to process what's going on here. The group across the aisle watches us intently, and several other tables have the corner of their eyes situated on us. The television in the corner babbles out the rest of the six o'clock news, consisting of crime statistics, the mayor's statement, the upcoming election, and the weather.

Have I forgotten what this looks like?

"No, I don't want to eat any trash Bugburga is selling," Jackie says, his collar giving a low beep as the status light changes color into yellow. "And there aren't any signs telling me that I can't eat here."

"No, sir," the waitress says firmly. "But, I believe it would be in the best interest of the rest of our customers if you choose to dine elsewhere."

The tension is palpable. I hear the ram clear his throat from across the aisle and rise slightly, as if hoping it'll push Jackie out. It's like they're saying he goes out one of two ways, one of which doesn't end well. That's what going on here. They want him out just because he's a predator. This isn't fear, this is something completely different. But my tongue is tied.

"Are you going to throw me out?" Jackie finally asks, his collar chirping again, this time more rapidly.

It'll shock him soon if he doesn't calm down.

"I wouldn't dare to," the waitress says, dropping all kindly pretenses. "Three predators like you have gone insane this summer, and eight of us are dead. We don't want to take the chance that you'll be number four, coyote. So the moment your tame collar goes off to keep your temper in check, I'll have no choice but to call the police and watch as they throw your primal, mammal-eating predator ass behind bars. Now, please, leave!"

The two rams stand up, as if to assist her. They expect him to lose it any moment, they're goading him. They're doing the same thing I did in the car. Yes, that's what's happening here. My brain finally clicks and it really hits home. I won't let this happen. Not again, not if I can stop it, before the laughter. So before Jackie can respond, even remotely, I stand up and look across, almost down, at the impala to get her attention. What a shame, she was so pretty just a few moments before, especially her fine tan coat and long eyelashes.

"I don't think so, honey," I tell her, pulling my glimmering golden badge from within my jacket. "We're not eating anywhere else. In fact, I think you're going to take our orders, both of them, with a smile. You're going to be nothing but courteous to this and any other predator that sets paw in this establishment. Because the moment you make that phone call to the precinct, you're going to find out just how fucking fun it is to deal with a detective that has a bone to pick and a lot of time on her hands."

Stepping backwards, up onto the fake leather seating, I stand as tall as I can to make certain that everyone in this whole goddamned building can see me and my badge. The flock of sheep across the aisle gaze at me with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a bit of primal fear as well. A few smaller groups across the foyer stare at me dumbfounded, with jaws hanging loose and eyes open wide. I hold my badge up for everyone to see, swinging it about in the light.

"And that goes for the rest of you!" I cry out, a mixture of sorrow and anger coursing through me. "If anyone of you has a problem with this or any other predator, you come see me. What the hell is wrong with you people? He's done nothing wrong. As a cop, I know what it's like to see the worst this city has to offer! Despite that, I still try to see the best in people, even when it's hard. And I understand, the world is scary, and it's easy to distrust, to hate. But just because a few predators have done awful things doesn't mean that any others will. It doesn't mean that this one will! I thought this country promised freedom, innocence until proven guilty, and an escape from the hatreds of the old world! Please, for just one moment, deliver on those promises."

I watch as expressions morph from anger or surprise to contrition and guilt. Many turn away, ashamed, and begin to murmur either ascent or at least quiet acceptance. The flock of sheep across the aisle from us is split. The younger members hide their faces out of embarrassment and don't look to me. The rams, on the other hand, as well as the older few are angry, though at least the edge has been broken off. They sit back down and try not to make eye contact. Seeing my point has been made very clear, I step back off of the chair and sit down, my heart rushing inside my chest, my mind whirring with excitement.

I put my badge down on the table, the steel clicking as it makes contact with the veneer-topped table. The waitress looks to both me and my badge with pure shock, her mouth agape and her brow high on her forehead. Then she seems to silently weigh her options, her brow tightening and her ears folding back against her head. Finally, she pulls a pad and pen from her short apron and flips it open to a clean page.

"Shall we start with a drink, then?" She asks, defeated.

"Thank you," I tell her, feeling victorious. "I'll stick with my water for now, but what will you have, Mr. Primal?"

"A-a coffee. Yeah, just, uh, coffee, black," Jackie stutters, dumfounded.

The waitress writes down her order and then scurries away, her tail tucked between her legs in defeat. She's so flustered and ashamed that I entertain the thought that she'll leap the counter for safety. Afterwards there is an awkward silence. The tables around us mutter to themselves. I can't make out a lot of it, but, I hear a mixture of normal conversations picking up and a few pondering their own actions.

Jackie sits in silence for a long time, looking to me. His bright, blue eyes are wide open, staring at me, his lips open just enough that I can see some of his teeth. The light on his collar turns green and gives a gentle 'beep' to let us all know he's calmed down. Then he begins to fuss with his napkin, his fingers jerkily tearing it up, spreading the silverware out, then straightening them, and then spreading them out again.

"You-you didn't have to do that," he says sheepishly. "I'm used to it by now."

"Of course I did," I assure him, picking up my new detective's shield to survey it. "I'm a detective now, I'm supposed to protect and serve. I'm not going to let some bitch with a chip on her shoulder, backed up by some lynch mob-in-training bully my friend."

"Your friend?" He says, barely audibly, as if he can't process those simple words.

"Of course, what else are you?" I ask him, shrugging.

His lips stumble over his words for a few seconds before he sighs.

"Huh, well, I think you're a little late to that party, Detective," Jackie says, looking away sorrowfully. "I've spent the last twenty-eight years trying to navigate a world filled to the brim will people who see animals like me as nothing but trash, or worthless. As an other. It's because of people like them that I grew up behind a fence, asking my mom and dad why I couldn't go to Poney Island in the summer or to the schools that weren't collapsing in on themselves in the fall. Animals like them," he nods towards the sheep, "keep me in the tame collar."

He lifts his chin and I see it again, after so much time trying to forget it exists. That tame collar. One little slip up, one wrong word or forgotten emotion, and you can be incapacitated by it. The key weighs heavily in my pocket and I absentmindedly twist it around between my thumb and finger.

"I could take it off, you know," I whisper to him. "If it were me, you wouldn't have to wear that stupid tame collar anymore. You don't need it."

I've never had that thought before, let alone say it aloud. But it's true, and it feels good to say. Some of that mental storm I've had since the arrest begins to dissipate. Jackie simply chuckles nervously and then looks away, out the window towards the setting sun. Deep inside, both of us know that's impossible. The moment he steps out into the open without his tame collar on for any reason except a medical one or an emergency, he's prison-bound. Assuming the ARU doesn't send him to his mom in a body bag. And then I'd go to Rams Island too for my troubles, just for wanting him to be free for a while.

"I'm starting to remember why I disliked people like her, like them," I tell him before quietly adding, "Jackie, I'm--I'm sorry."

"For what?" He asks, surprised. "You didn't make her like she is, or any of them either."

He puts his paws down onto the tabletop and I do as well.

"What? No, no for how I've treated you," I continue.

Without much of a thought, I gently touch the top of his hand. To my surprise, he doesn't recoil, though the thought seems to cross his mind when his eyes cut down to see what I've done. No, instead, he turns his hand over and takes it tentatively.

"Whenever I hear people like her, I can't help but hear my father's voice cutting through," I admit to him, trying to relax myself. "He's a prosecutor for the city. Or, at least he was until he retired. He has singlehanded put more predators behind bars than anyone else I know, and he did it with glee. I think he saw himself as some sort of caped crusader, but with a briefcase, putting bad guys behind bars one at a time. Where they belong, he insisted."

"Seems like a lovely guy," Jackie says, with a kind, understanding tone that doesn't mesh up with his words.

He gives my hand a squeeze, as if to comfort me. The honest truth is that I haven't spoken to anyone about my family, ever, and I think he knows it. That includes the 'friends' I had in college, in the old neighborhood, anywhere. I don't know why I suddenly feel the urge to talk about them now, here to somebody I met less than 24 hours ago. But he keeps holding my hand, and that's enough.

"I guess some saw him like that," I continue, my voice straining a bit. "But I always saw him as some delusional megalomaniac, trying to rebuild the fences that separated preds and prey. And every time I look at you, I get this pang, this cutting feeling in my chest. I wonder if I'm him."

Jackie's look transitions into gentle surprise, but the warmth from his exposed pads continues to radiate into my fur. He even gives me another squeeze, to let me know that he isn't letting go. I'm not being rejected. A hot feeling rushes into my eyes, and into my stomach, and my ears to, as if I'm about to start bawling in public. Jesus Capybara, I haven't done that since I was a fawn!

"Come on, Jane, you're not," Jackie sweetly says.

"But I am, a little," I assert to him, trying to be quiet, but not stopping the torrent of emotion inside. "I gambled your freedom to finally get my promotion with the captain, Jackie, I know you heard that. Then I imprisoned you, scared that you'd run just to spite me, just to spite some prey cop who was unfairly imprisoning you. And what do I do when you finally start talking to me? Goad you into shocking yourself with that stupid collar! And then you have to go and save my life, for which I will never, _ever_be able to repay you! Even after all that, you saved me. I keep telling myself that I'm not like him, that I'm not that bigoted, self-entitled asshole in a suit like him. But, at the end of the day, I'm still daddy's little fawn."

Closing my eyes, no longer able to look at him, I turn my nose down and feel a tear or two run down the top layer of my fur. I can't bring myself to look at him, to see the person I've been tormenting for over a day now, projecting all of my worst fears, anxieties, and hatreds onto. But he doesn't let my hand go. And after a few seconds, I calm down and open my eyes to see him still sitting there, same as before. His ears are tall, his eyes wide and blue.

It feels like a thousand pounds have been lifted off of my shoulders after so much time, just to talk, to finally talk. And it feels so good to not be pushed away.

'Hey, it's ok. You don't have to apologize," he tells me, shaking his head. "You didn't know who I was, or the things I've done. I could have been any sleazy lowlife, but not because I'm a predator. Sure, what you did was kind of dickish, but, I don't blame you for it. I may have done the same if the roles were reversed."

Then he is quiet, while I study his face. His nose is smaller than mine, but that muzzle is so much sharper, longer. He's got these whiskers, too, sort of like a cat's, that stick out to both sides from just behind that black nose. Most of the underside of his face is white, while the upper side is a mixture of gray and tan, but he's got these two little black spots on either side of his nose, something I hadn't noticed. I almost feel like I never really saw this animal, and that I'm just now bothering to even look at him; to see him.

I guess I didn't really see him as anything, not even a person. But he is, and he's unique, and good, even if he's got a wide smile filled with sharp teeth. And it's a good smile, a handsome one. My stomach does summersaults inside me and I chuckle a little, sniffling, wondering at the words flowing through my mind. Jackie gives a quiet hum as well.

"You've been bottling that up for a long time, huh?" He asks me, with only a hint of playfulness.

I nod and lean forward, sighing and running the sleeve of my free hand across my muzzle to mop up some of my tears. My god. I can't talk to anybody I know about any of this stuff, but here I am doing it with someone that I've just met, and not only someone I hardly know, but a predator. And one I arrested too! My father would have an aneurism, and I would be glad for it.

"You were right when you said you thought I had no friends," I say quietly. "I think growing up the way I did twisted me. It isolated me. I want to say that I became a cop to help animals everywhere in possibly the greatest city to have ever existed, maybe right some of the wrongs in the world. But I think I did it to get away from them, to try to succeed or fail on my own. You know, I graduated near the top of my class at the academy. But getting placed into a precinct was excruciating, like they hadn't planned on ever having to put me anywhere. It was like they thought I wouldn't make the cut and the problem would just go away on its own. But then I was in the 12th precinct, on the job. I guess, it just makes me wonder. Did he make a phone call?"

"You shouldn't," Jackie insists, reassuringly. "You got this all on your own. Just because you got there in an unconventional way doesn't make it the wrong way. You have no one to thank but yourself. Never forget that. Everything you do is just that: you. The good, the bad, everything in-between. And nothing your parents--your father--ever say or do will change that. Don't go to bed owing anybody anything."

I smile at his words, and then realize that I've been talking about myself this entire time. Actually, it feels kind of good to finally talk about something other than work and the usual small-talk animals have in the hallways and between their desks. This is like every date that I wish I had, rolled into one, without the condescending or misplaced compliments and hopes that you aren't sweating too much.

Suddenly the waitress returns and delivers his coffee, as well as a soda for me that she insists is on the house. When she asks what we'll be ordering, I pick the wilderness salad with apple dressing, and he orders a breakfast platter with a double order of the hash browns. The waitress diligently takes it down and then disappears again. We get no comment from the peanut gallery, not even a cough or a chuckle. The food should be out soon.

"What about your family?" I ask him, feeling a bit guilty, but a good kind of guilty. "From everything you've said, they sound like a dream."

"Oh, yeah, I grew up loving my parents, even if we struggled sometimes. Dad worked the barbershop, you know, the one below the apartment, and Mom worked the clinic. And, well, things were ok. But he wanted more than that, for Mom and for me. He wanted me to escape, to not get stuck in the same cycle that traps preds in poverty, lack of education, and crime. The worst thing he could do is see me grow to become a barber or stylist like him. That shop was his cross to bear and he didn't want me to inherit it.

"So he started saving when I was a puppy. A little here, a little there. Until he had enough money for his dream: his own club and theater. There's this place on Cyprus Grove Way pretty far down and out of the theater district, a disused old place by the old park. But it was on the prey side of the old fence line, across the canal. Dad saved up most of his life for it, until he had enough for a sizable down payment. But, the owners didn't want to sell to him, because he was a pred. So they leaned on the banks, and they redlined him. They told him he could play his sax there, but a pred would never own a theater north of west of Fence Street. He never got the loan. It broke him, in a way. He died about three years back, now, though he might as well have died earlier. And I haven't spoken to Mom since."

"I'm so sorry," I tell him, though not feeling as guilty as I did earlier.

He doesn't look sad for having told me. That smile doesn't go away like before, though he does give me a little wave with his free hand, as if what I asked didn't matter. Then he sighs, the packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket crinkling.

"Ah, don't worry about it. Dad and I didn't see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. A bit of me feels like I drove him into the coffin, but I couldn't stop the cancer. As for Mom, well, I know she loves me, and she knows I love her. I'm hoping Dad's dream won't die with him, though. I wanna do what he couldn't. Someday, right?"

I give him a smile, glad to hear that. The waitress reappears with our food and we only stop holding hands in order to eat. While Jackie seems to eat ravenously, I have him beat out. I guess I didn't realize how long it's been since I ate anything at all. Jesus, it must have been yesterday before my shift started that I ate anything at all. And the only thing I've really eaten since then is the drink I had at the Aries with Jackie and maybe some vending machine trash at the hospital.

A theater? Jackie Quartz wants to run and own his own club? I'm not sure what I had expected him to want to do in life, but a bit of me is surprised that that is it. Then again, everything that I know about him could be written up and printed on a tri-fold pamphlet, and most of that I've learned in the last few hours alone.

Actually, it sounds really nice. My dream has always been to be strong, independent, a fantastic officer and somebody to envy. Maybe rise to commissioner, change the whole system for the better to leave my mark. At least, I thought I did. But I didn't want to succeed on my name or my family, so I wanted to start as a street-level cop, work my way up through the detective's bureau into high command. And it seems my dream is starting to come true, at least some.

About ten minutes later, the flock of sheep across from us pays and leaves. While we get some grumbles and miserable looks from the older ewes and rams, it's quiet. And I get the satisfaction that I didn't let their prejudices and fears rule the day. Jackie finishes his meal as well and then sits across, basking in the glory of a fantastic meal. We know we have to move on soon, to meet the client who called, but, I keep thinking. His eyes dart about, as if his mind is working as well. Then we both lean forward.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" We say in unison.

He chuckles and then fumbles around.

"You go ahead," he insists, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling awkward.

"I don't want to really pry, so stop me if I'm getting too personal, but, you've said you've been alone for a while," I say, trying my best to sound tactful. "Did--did you ever sing your song?"

He doesn't become sullen, though he does look away for a moment. Unlike last time I asked something I suspect might be too much, I don't seem to have hit that switch to turn him off. But the question does seem uncomfortable for him. My ears fold back and I go to retract the question, or at least redirect it somewhere else. But I can't form any words, only sounds that tumble from between my lips. Jackie notices and stops me with a gentle smile.

"How much do you trust me?" He asks, seemingly out of left field.

"Trust you?" I ask him

Why does that phrase seem familiar?

"You saved my life. I trust you immensely, Jackie," I insist to him.

"I know, but, how much do you trust me?" He repeats himself, his nose turning down slightly. "Would you let me lead you into a really bad part of town, where only predators live, all alone, without your gun or badge? Miles and miles away from any prey that would hear you scream, with no help to be found?"

He's testing me. And it's a test that I'm now well prepared for. I look to him, a bit surprised, but then tighten my jaw up and give a nervous smile. I don't feel as much pressure to say the right thing.

"Yes, I would, Jackie Quartz," I tell him calmly, as if conjuring those words took no effort whatsoever. "To the ends of this world."

He smiles and then begins to slide from his seat. Snatching up my badge, which is still laying out on the table, he stands and presents it to me. I take it and begin to pull money from my pocket to pay for our meal, something I did insist to him that I would do. Then he begins to step backwards, making me utterly confused.

"Where are you going?" I ask him.

"I don't want to just tell you," he replies. "I think it's better if I show you. But you have to trust me. And you can't get angry."

"I won't, I swear," I tell him.

He just smiles and then begins to lead me out. The remaining patrons watch us go, like we're a couple of freaks. Screw them. This is possibly the best meal that I've ever eaten in my life. And, yes, that includes all the fancy dinner parties that my parents threw, all of the holidays, and all of the dates I've ever had.

No, it's at some middle of the road diner with a terrible atmosphere and gaudy decorations, with a predator I've known for less than a day, surrounded by people I assumed were better than they actually are. And, at least for an hour or so, I didn't think about much of anything. With my badge now safely tucked back inside my pocket, work could be a million miles away.