What happened next became the talk of our small town, a story passed around hushed dinner tables and local gatherings. For years, I had lived a quiet life alongside Harold, our days filled with gardening and volunteer work at the community center. My past was something I had tucked away, a chapter that seemed distant once I settled into the rhythms of retirement. But that day, watching Harold brought to his knees on burning asphalt, something inside me reawakened.
I had once worked for the Department of Justice as a legal analyst, specializing in cases of civil rights violations. I had spent years building cases against those who abused their power, ensuring that justice was served. My time at the DOJ had taught me to spot injustice from a mile away, and that day, it was staring me right in the face.
