I see him again the next day.

It's a quiet evening of an equally quiet shift. We're at the station, hanging outside, enjoying the sunset. The Nashville Fire Department's position at the top of a hill provides us with a marvelous view at the city—the business areas and the apartment buildings, the high rises, and, farther away, the villas and the hotels and the shoreline. We never talk about it, but during the sunsets, if we're not answering a call, most of us wander outside, drinking coffee or soda, watching the sun disappear in the ocean.

Then it gets dark, and the action switches gears. Things happen in the dark—fires, shootings, accidents. Maybe we, as a species, aren’t supposed to be out there after the sunset. We should crawl into our little caves and lie low, listening to the predators roaming outside, waiting for the sun to reappear.

Today the sky is mostly obscured by ragged grey clouds, so the sunset is nothing spectacular. Holding my coffee, I watch the occasional cars and people pass by the tall iron fence and keep one ear out for Mike and Baldwin discussing yesterday's game.

Then he appears.

Even if it were someone else, I would have noticed him, for he's running, not walking. He has the long black coat on that I saw him wear during the winter as well. It seemed not warm enough a garment for winter; now that it's spring, it looks too hot.

I sit straighter, my eyes following his progress along the fence. It gets even stranger when, upon reaching the open gates, he grabs the iron post to slow down and changes direction, heading across the yard towards us.

I suddenly have trouble swallowing, that same inexplicable reflex that I've been experiencing every time I saw him in public. I watch him come closer, not running anymore, but walking fast, his long black hair jumping up and down, his pale face slightly blushed from the exercise. He stops a few steps away, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets, and surveys us for a second. It's a relief that he's not looking at me, but at Mike and Baldwin. I glance to find them staring at him blankly, clearly as puzzled as I am by this intrusion.

"What's up?" he says.

"All's fine, son," says Baldwin. At forty-five, he can freely use this term in relation to our guest who looks about half his age. "Need help?"

"No. Just wanted to say ‘hi’ to people whose job is to protect and serve our community."

The three of us exchange looks.

"That's police's motto," says Mike.

"Aren’t you the same, more or less?"

We gape at him, not sure if he's joking, or drunk, or something else. Then, there's noise on the street, and four more people appear, also running. They are all young guys dressed in leather jackets and jeans, all shaved bald, all grim-looking. They come to a halt by the open gate and stare at us.

The guy in the coat turns and waves at them.

"Your entourage, princess?" says Mike, nodding at the men by the gate.

"Acquaintances, more like."

The four skinheads shift from foot to foot as if an invisible line prevents them from entering. I wonder if the invisible line is the presence of Mike, Baldwin and myself, in addition to a few more men who begin to come out of the station, attracted by the noise.

"Should I get the police for you?" says Mike.

"No, they're just playing. If police gets involved, they'll be pissed for real."

"Hey!" one of the skinhead shouts. "Come here you faggot chicken shit!"

"Come get me." The guy in the coat flips them a finger.

"Not wise," remarks Mike. "They'll catch you later."

"They just take everything so seriously." The guy turns and smiles at us. "It's a pleasure to tease them a bit."

"What's going on?" comes the low, steady voice of Lagana.

We all turn, and the guy in the coat stands a little straighter, taking his hands out of his pockets.

"Do you have any business here, young man?" Lagana says.

The guy visibly swallows. "No…sir. I just –"

"Then do you mind leaving?"

I catch the guy throw a quick glance at the gates, a look of unease on his face.

"Chief," says Mike. "He's been chased by those guys over there."

Lagana looks at the gates, and, prompted either by his grumpy stare or by the fact that more firefighters have come out of the station, the skinheads retreat. They exchange a few words in low tones and start walking away, occasionally glancing back at us.

"Need an escort home, princess?" says Mike.

"A taxi will do." The guy watches the four men until they disappear from view, then slips a cell phone out of his pocket. "See, you can serve and protect as well as the police. Never underestimate your abilities!" He flashes a smile at us before turning on his heels and heading to the gates, the phone to his ear.

"Arrogant much?" says Lagana.

Mike chuckles. "This is as close as he can get to saying thank you."

"Do you know him?"

"Yeah." Mike nods. "It's Joshua Hill, a performer from the 'Golden Leaf' club."

"I see." Lagana shakes his head. "A sleazy guy from a sleazy place."

He turns around and heads back into the station. The guys who came out follow him one by one, eventually leaving me with Mike and Baldwin again.

"A performer?" I say.

"Oh!" Mike shoots me a glance. "I swear, Ethan, sometimes you keep so quiet that I forget you're there." He picks his coffee cup from the table and stares at it contemplatively before putting it back down. "Yeah, they have a live show on some nights, with a band, and he sings, mostly." He gives me a long look. "Have you met him before?"

"Where on earth would I meet him?" I say, a bit too sharply.

"I don’t know." He gives me a half-smile that I don’t like. "That club is two blocks from your place, isn’t it?"

"I've seen him on the streets a few times."

"Remarkable, isn't he?" He looks away dreamily. "I like his voice. He owns the crowd when he's on the stage. Some guys are head over heels about him, but he plays it hard to get." He grins at me. "Hence the 'princess' nickname. But I heard when you get in his good books, he's…fine." He wiggles his eyebrows.

"You've been to his shows?" I say, feeling the blush creeping up my face.

"A few times." He holds my gaze. "You have a problem with that?"

"No," I say, because that's the right thing to say around here, the learned reaction, even though everything inside me screams—yes, I do have a problem with you going there, and talking about it as if it were nothing. Being a pervert may not have been his choice but acting as if there was nothing wrong with it sure is. I glance at Baldwin, half expecting a shocked reaction—he's older, after all, they were taught better than this—but he just sips his coffee, his eyes on the darkening horizon.

"Okay." Mike nods and gets up, crumpling the empty foam cup in his hand. "Maybe I'll take you there one day, how about that?"

"Thanks," I say, getting up after him. "Not my thing."