A Stolen Bicycle
By Abbie Bernstein
Gwen was not in the habit of asking people if they were crazy when she first met them, but she made an exception for the man standing on her porch in the rising dusk. He was nice-looking, African-American, a little taller and younger than Gwen, and wearing glasses with thick black rims and a well-pressed, though sweat-stained, shirt. “Ms. Skipner,” he said, offering his hand to shake, “I’m Louis Deschance with law enforcement here in District 218.”
Gwen shook his hand. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
“Ms. Skipner, would you like to become a police officer for District 218?”
Gwen blurted a laugh. “Are you crazy?”
Louis chuckled back politely. “Only according to my friends. You seem a likely candidate.”
“Based on what?”
“Our records, for one thing.”
“You have records on me?”
Louis nodded, his tone reassuring. “Yes, ma’am. First grade teacher, laid off, and you were one of the organizers at the Lake Cantona refugee center . . .”
“That’s wrong,” Gwen felt obliged to say. “I wasn’t an organizer, I was just there, a refugee.”
