The Crossing Guard

Twenty years reading people for governments and corporations. Now I hold a stop sign at Riverside Elementary while my daughter pretends not to know me.

It started with chess. Not the game—the way certain players can’t help themselves. Cornered, they escalate. Threatened, they attack. Predictable irrationality.

I was good at mapping that psychology. Until someone mapped mine.

The assignment seemed routine. Government official, foreign researchers, assess the vulnerabilities. But every answer led to questions I couldn’t ask. Every source went silent. Every lead disappeared into jurisdictions that didn’t exist on any organizational chart.

Rachel helped me follow the money. Twenty-four hours later, she called in sick. Permanently.

The man in my kitchen didn’t threaten my family. Didn’t need to. Just showed me photographs of myself asking the wrong questions, reminded me that curiosity has consequences.

Seventy-two hours to choose sides in a game whose rules I never understood.

Now I wear bright orange every morning. Help children cross safely. Wave at neighbors who think I’m just being civic-minded.

The crossword puzzle under my windshiper has five simple clues. STAGE. CATAPULT. NERO. KNIGHT. IAGO.

All the world’s a stage. Medieval siege warfare. Emperors who perform while cities burn. Chess pieces that move in L-shapes. Villains who whisper poison.

My phone buzzes: “Nero was 30 when he died.”

They know I spent last night thinking about emperors and entertainers, about the difference between madness and method. They know because they designed the puzzle to lodge in exactly the kind of mind that analyzes everything, connects everything, sees patterns in random noise.

Twenty years building expertise in reading people.

Someone read me back.

The children cross safely. Traffic waits. I hold my sign and realize this isn’t punishment—it’s training.

For what comes next.

​​​​​​​