The year was 2001. I was attending a neighbourhood potlock at the local park with my wife and our

newborn son, we named Ashton. Our friends were related upon learning we had our first,

and would be meeting Ashton for the first time that day. Everyone fussed over him, and

the adorable circle of birthmark beneath his left eye, debating which of us he looked

like more, and how excited their kids were to have a new friend.

There were about a dozen of us that occupied three picnic tables. We had three or four

coolers, a whole spread of different platters and trays that covered the entire table,

along with burgers and hot dogs cooking on two charcoal grills.

My cross-street neighbour Fred grilled, while everyone else taught, drank, and played games.

Ashton laid in his carriage, where Joe parked in the shade of an oak tree next to the grills.

I kept Fred company while he cooked, acting as a sort of sous-chef and making sure his drink was full.

The park was particularly busy, and despite everything going on, I spotted someone who appeared

to be watching our group sitting alone at a picnic table about ten yards from our spot.

His clothes, stretchy black pants and a heavy-looking hoodie that obscured his face were so

uncharacteristic for a mid-summer day, and made him very noticeable.

The hooded man sat facing us with his arms folded on the table.

I pointed him out to Fred, who ignited something seemed off, but thought he appeared harmless.

Maybe he's meeting someone, I suggested, while pouring Fred a beer.

Without any discretion, Fred turned and stared directly at the man.

Could be, Fred said, with disinterest while flipping a new burger.

Maybe he got stood up, while fixing a plate to make him feel better.

I rolled my eyes at Fred's remark and able to resonate with his unapologetic apathy.

...