A heavy knock landed on my locked door.

Through the glass I saw a man in an expensive suit, black briefcase, flat eyes, a laminated badge held up to the pane. District Legal Counsel. He mouthed three words: Open the door.

I did, and he stepped in like he owned the air.

He didn’t glance at the artwork on the walls or the alphabet border.

He looked only at me, sizing up a problem.

“Elliot Ackerley,” he said, offering a hand I didn’t take.