Red Hoodie

He wore a white hoodie that day. It wasn’t his favorite, but it was heavy and the inside was soft and it would do to keep the cold off as he worked. He looked good in it, too. His black skin contrasted with the bright white and his broad shoulders filled it out nicely. He put his apartment key and his phone and his wallet in the pockets; you never put valuables in a back pocket in this neighborhood. Walking out the front door he turned right and began to walk to work.

Slinging burgers wasn’t a life, but it was a job. He was saving up for a car, though the sum kept going down whenever his mother or sister called needing help to get by. He had a second job scrapping metal on the weekends, and sometimes he could get hours parking cars when the big arena had a concert. He got by.

He was on his lunch break when it happened. He stubbed his cigarette against the brick wall in the alley behind the diner. There were men running a block down. A commotion. Police. A chase. He reached for his phone. A loud bang. Burning. Pain. His hoodie turned red as he lay in the alley, dying.

They said in the press conference it was a mistake. He matched the description. He had a hand in his pocket. It all happened so fast. He looked threatening.

Apologies. Uproar. Protests. Debate. But what does that matter to him? He can’t hear any of it. His hoodie is still red.