He mutters something else. When I shake my head again, he gets louder but not any clearer, until I recognize the familiar phrase on his lips. “What, are you deaf or something?”
“Enough, I can’t hear you,” I sign.
At first, he leans back, startled. I briefly consider how Mackenzie told me she fakes being deaf to get creepy guys to leave her alone—but then the man in front of me curls up his lips into a narrow, unsettling grin, stepping even closer. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
I push past the man and run to the end of the row, where I find Isaac rounding the corner. Isaac immediately takes stock of the situation and stands still, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, looking as intimidating as he possibly can while holding four boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups.
Isaac wraps his arm around me, and the man backs off and scurries out of the aisle.
“Are you okay?” Isaac searches the emotions on my face.
“Let’s go.” I look down at the Oreos in my hands and discover they’re Birthday Cake. “Oh wait, ew.”
Isaac nods in agreement, holding my hand as we walk back to the Oreos. “My favorite is M-i-n-t,” he says, as I’m already reaching for that very flavor.
“Same!” I’m relieved to be far away from that drunk man and back at Isaac’s side.
We hustle to get out of the store and back to camp. Unfortunately, three of the four self-checkout lanes are closed, and there’s a line for the only available one, with none other than that creepy guy at the end of it.
“This one.” I point to the regular lane, where an old woman behind the counter hands a customer their receipt. There’s no line.
Isaac winces and tenses up, bobbling his head indecisively. But when he notices the drunk guy in the self-checkout line, he leads the way to the cashier.
After putting our snacks down on the belt, I unzip my backpack to find my wallet, but Isaac nods that he’ll get it. The lady quickly bags the items on the circle platform beside her and spins it around for us to grab our stuff on our way out.
Isaac goes to stick his card in the chip reader, but half of the machine is covered in duct tape, and a sign indicates to swipe instead. I wrap my hands around his left arm, leaning into him as a way of saying thanks. I love the smell of campfire smoke on his clothes. If we hurry, maybe we can get back in time to cuddle around the flames.
After Isaac puts his card away, I notice that the lady behind the register is saying something. Isaac looks at me, but I don’t catch what she says, either. He reaches for his phone, probably to use the Live Transcribe app. But she must’ve been asking if we needed the receipt, so I go ahead and respond, “No, thanks.”
Outside the store, I pause to dig out my keys while Isaac takes a few steps with our bags, looking for the car. I’m about to hold his hand when I realize someone behind me is yelling.
I cringe. Is it that guy?
But it isn’t. It’s some other man, dressed in all black, who runs past me and straight at Isaac. “Hey!” I shout at the man while lunging forward to alert Isaac—but the man beats me to it.
He grabs onto Isaac’s shoulder and tries to spin him around. Isaac glances back—first, at the man holding onto his shoulder and shouting in his face, then at my petrified stare. In the next instant, Isaac throws his elbow back, knocking the man in the nose.
It’s only as the man stumbles back, raising a hand to his bleeding nose, that I realize there’s a patch on his chest.
On his uniform.
Oh no. He’s a security guard.
The guard curses loudly. Isaac tries to step toward me, but the man grabs him by the shirt. The guard hasn’t tried to identify himself, and Isaac must not have noticed the patch, since this guy grabbed him from behind and closed in too fast this time. The two grapple with each other on the sidewalk. Isaac’s shock is now pure anger as he drops the two bags full of snacks. They fall to the ground, boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups spilling out.
“Stop!” I realize I signed the word, slamming my right hand perpendicular onto my left palm.
Isaac attempts a punch. The guard swerves out of the way to land one of his own. Isaac raises a hand to clutch his eye. As he does, the guard sticks out a leg to trip Isaac to the ground. Isaac falls, sprawling onto the concrete, scraping his cheek and palms against the curb.
The flashing lights arrive then. And I find the strength to step in.
“Stop it!” I yell at the guard. “You hurt him. Stop it!” The automatic doors keep opening and closing behind me. I’m planted in the sensor’s range. “Get away from him!”
But the guard pins Isaac to the ground as the police car parks in front of us. The officer gets out, thoroughly unamused. He’s clean-shaven with a buzz cut. He walks leisurely up to the guard and Isaac, holding his belt with both hands. “What’s going on here?” he asks in a deep drawl.
“Can you help us?” I try to keep my voice level, but it wavers. “That guard grabbed him. Isaac can’t hear what you’re saying since he’s deaf.”
The officer squints toward me, holding up his hand. “Stay ——。” He motions for the guard to step back, then helps lift Isaac off the ground.
Isaac stands and carefully raises his scratched hands to his head, the bundle of friendship bracelets sliding down his arm. His face is pale, except for the red lines on his cheek. His brow is furrowed. There’s a gash above his left eye that is starting to bleed. His teeth are clenched tight, and his eyes, blinking rapidly from both pain and the nearby emergency lights, start to water.
The guard is saying something to the officer, but I can’t tell what. Or why he attacked Isaac. I get closer.
“Young lady,” the officer’s voice booms sternly.
“Excuse me,” I say, taking another step closer. Isaac gives the slightest head shake no, but I ignore him. “What is—”
The guard raises his voice to talk over me, but at least I can kind of tell what he’s saying now. “They —— and then stole —— when I called him to ——。”
“We didn’t steal anything,” I protest, but I am ignored.
The officer sizes up Isaac and his worn camp clothes. Isaac raises a hand to his forehead and brings it in front of his eyes to inspect the blood. He slowly wipes it on his sleeve, then holds one finger toward the officer.
“Why are you pointing at me?” the officer barks. The security guard slinks back toward the wall.
Isaac points toward his pocket. “My phone,” he signs cautiously, mouthing the words along with his signs to try to help the cop follow what he’s saying.
“He can’t hear you,” I tell the officer. “He’s deaf.”
“I’ve told you ——，” he shouts back, still not paying attention to me.
“I’m deaf and need to grab . . . ” Isaac slowly signs, bringing his hand down and motioning to the pocket with his phone.
“What are you doing?” the officer says. He reaches forward and pushes Isaac’s back against the patrol car, preparing to search him.
“I’m trying to tell you that he’s deaf!” I shout. While I know exactly what Isaac was signing, the officer must have no idea. Nor could he read Isaac’s lips.