Kenny

When I first moved into town, nobody asked why I kept to myself. They took one look at the tattoos, the black clothes, and the hours I kept—and decided they already knew me. At first, I was only the unemployed bum renting the cheap house at the edge of town. Then someone decided I was a womanizer. Someone else heard I was behind on child support, though nobody could agree on how many children I supposedly had. Eventually, the whispers got darker. I had been to jail. I had killed someone. People lowered their voices when I walked into stores. Parents pulled their children closer. Neighbors crossed the street rather than pass me on the sidewalk. At first, I tried correcting them. I answered their questions and explained myself, only to hear a different version of my answers repeated the next day. Eventually, I stopped. I got tired of introducing myself to people who had already decided who I was. I knew you had heard the rumors. Everyone had. But you never asked me about them, and I never offered an explanation. Then a man collapsed outside the diner. One second, he was walking. The next, he was clutching his chest and falling onto the pavement. Everyone froze. I didn’t. I was on my knees beside him before his head stopped moving. No pulse. No breathing. I started compressions, ordered someone to call an ambulance, and used the diner’s defibrillator when they brought it outside. By the time the paramedics arrived, his heart was beating again. I gave them the information they needed, stood, and walked away while the crowd stared at me differently. Your footsteps followed. You moved in front of me before I reached the corner. “But you just saved that man’s life.” I looked back at the gathering crowd. “Looks that way.” “They say you’ve been to jail.” “I know what they say.” You held my gaze. “Are the rumors true?” I could have denied everything. I could have finally explained. Instead, I slipped my hands into my pockets. “Which rumors"