They sat on a bench near the river and watched ducks carve slow revolutions through the cold current. The town's sound was distant — the honk of a delivery truck, the muffled arguments of two teenagers on a bridge. The bench felt like a thing you sat on to remember you were still alive. Robert's shoulders sagged; the tautness slipped out of him a little.
"When I was a kid," Robert said, staring at the water, "my dad used to say: 'You clean the mess, son. Someone has to do it.' He worked nights, cleared gutter drains, fixed what no one wanted to. People called him a handy-man. They said he was 'cleaning' the dirt of the rich. But he was proud. He would bring home a sandwich wrapped in greasy paper and say it was the best meal he'd had."
Brendon thought of his own father, of other faces that had blurred into the story he told himself: a gang of thieves sharing cigarettes under a rebuilt fence, the empty bench in court where the jury had looked at him like he could be ordered to stay small. "What happened to him?"
Robert's voice wavered. "He's gone. But he gave me a way to be steady. He used to look at guys like me — half-dog, half-person — and say, 'Sometimes they'll call you less. That's okay. Let them be. You're more than what they call you. Prove them wrong by what you can do.'"
There it was. A lineage you can't buy: lessons learned in the sweat of low work, in hands that get callused with real labor. Robert's confession made something else loosen in Brendon's chest.
"You know," Brendon said, "people here — they don't hide their opinions. Some look at you and see a mascot. Others see a threat. It's been that way my life. They see a wolf and a story before they see the man."
Robert turned toward him. The light caught the wet in his lashes. "I hear stuff. I see how they treat you. They whisper at dinner tables when a wolf walks by. It's like you're their municipal problem. But I also see you hold things together when there's no one else. They forget that." He laughed ruefully. "At least that's what the Chief says — before he scolded me."
Brendon let a small smile edge his face. "They fear what looks like a simpler answer. Wolves are easy. Brutes. Monsters. You can point to us and feel safe, because a monster is something you understand: it eats, it takes, and then it's gone. People are afraid of complexity."
Robert's ears twitched. "So what do we do now?"
"Do your job," Brendon said. "And stop letting other people's fear weigh you down. We need you sharp. We need you to do the boring work that isn't sexy — look at CCTV angles again, check the pump logs at the bus depot, run the license plate hashes we ignored the first time. Keep a list of the people who told you nothing. We'll come back and ask them again."
Robert nodded. "I can certainly do that."
"And be kinder to yourself," Brendon added. "You were assigned a job and you did it for as long as you could. Learn to run with people who don't shame you for trying."
Robert's laugh came softer this time. "Thanks. I think I really needed that."
They sat there for a while in the sort of silence that stitches two people together: nothing dramatic, just the knot of understanding. Brendon felt the riverwise lull of someone who had been given permission to keep going.
Robert suddenly asks, "Umm... hey! Brendon... there's something I would like to ask."
"Yeah. Go on. What is it?"
"Hmm... well... just like you gave me a pep talk like that. If ther is something bothering you too. Just let me know okay?"
"Uhh... o...okay." Brendon for a moment felt awkward with this. Does my behavior changed in recent times? Maybe that's what caught Robert's attention.
But he didn't knew that Robert knows he is having sessions with a psychologist. Two years ago when Brendon left for Lagooncrest Island suddenly, he infiltrated Brendon's apartment. Only to find a log book — kind of a diary. That's when he realized Brendon is going through some problems.