THE QUIET MAN AT RIVERSIDE PARK
A full-length expanded story inspired by the supplied Owen Briggs and Bryce Colton narrative. A work of fiction.
PART ONE — THE FOURTH OF JULY
Chapter 1 — The Things a Man Carries
The most dangerous men in the world do not always look dangerous. Sometimes they look like the grandfather at the grocery store who takes too long counting change because two of his fingers are missing. Sometimes they wear faded cargo shorts, carry a dented travel mug, and say “After you” when somebody reaches a doorway at the same time they do.
Sometimes they are dangerous only because they spent so many years learning what danger costs that they will do almost anything to avoid it.
At seven thirteen on the morning of July Fourth, Owen Briggs was standing in his kitchen trying to open a jar of strawberry preserves.
It was an ordinary jar with a stubborn lid. He braced the glass against the counter with his left hand, the hand with the missing ring and little fingers, and twisted with his right. The lid refused to move. He set it down, ran hot water over the metal, dried it, and tried again. It gave with a sharp pop.
“Victory,” he muttered to nobody.
The kitchen was quiet except for a ceiling fan with a small click in its bearings. The radio on the windowsill was tuned to an oldies station, but Owen kept the volume low. A fresh loaf of bread sat beside a grocery-store bouquet of sunflowers. He had purchased the flowers yesterday for no particular reason. His wife, Ellen, used to put flowers on the table every holiday, even when their bank account had been thin enough that Owen complained about the waste.
She had always replied, “Then look at them twice.”
Ellen had been gone for six years. The sunflowers were still there.
He filled a mug with black coffee, made toast, and checked his phone. His daughter Megan had sent a message at 6:42.
At the hospital. Contractions closer. Drew looks like he might be the one who needs medical attention.
Owen typed with his right thumb.
Tell Drew breathing helps. You, too.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, and returned.
Please do not give him another military briefing on breathing.
Wasn’t planning to. Love you.
Love you. Caleb’s bag is at the front door. He’s excited but nervous.
He understood. Nine-year-old Caleb had spent eight months asking when the baby was coming. The closer his little sister got to arriving, the more he worried that her arrival would change the rules of the family in ways no adult was willing to explain. One evening he had asked Owen whether parents had a limited amount of love, like minutes on an old phone plan.
