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One of the tenets of non-violent resistance

is that calmly insisting on your rights is a virtue.

Those who threaten, attack, beat, and kill

decent protesters show their true character

and cameras record that character for all to see.

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Lifting a weapon to a harmless person shows what you are.

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Badge

The courthouse steps rippled in the sun. Stone flaked, flags drooped, phones glowed in idle hands. Clerks on break, kids on bikes, retirees with cups of soda lingered in the shade.

A girl came up the center run, manila envelope tucked under one arm, pen looped through her fingers. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Hair pinned back against the heat. She saw the sign on the glass—RECORDS 3RD FLOOR—and headed for the door.

The sheriff stepped from the alcove. His tan shirt was damp at the ribs, badge rimmed with green. He planted himself on the landing, baton loose at his hip.

“You,” he said, chin flicking at the envelope. “What’ve you got there?”

“It’s for Records.”

“Not without my say-so.” He moved down a step so she had to look up. “You check in with me first.”

“There’s no sign saying that.”

He smirked. “I’m the sign.”

Phones lifted. Deputies’ bodycams blinked. A woman sighed, “Here we go.”

The sheriff tipped his sunglasses down. “Name?”

She gave it.

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

“You here alone?”

“Yes.”

“You got permission?”

“I’m on an errand.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact. He took it as insolence. “Kids think they can mouth off at officers. That ends today.”

The crowd rustled. Someone said, “Come on, sheriff.”

She shifted the envelope from one arm to the other. “I’m just here to file these papers.”

“Not till I say.” His hand tapped the baton. “Hand it over.”

She didn’t.

He leaned in, sweat beading his temple. “Last chance.”

Again her answer, strong enough for every mic: “I’m just here to file these papers.”

Phones rose higher. Deputies froze. The courthouse clerk peered through glass.

The sheriff snapped the baton free and raised it shoulder-high. The crowd gasped. Every lens swung toward the weapon.

“Come on, sheriff,” came again, louder.

For a beat he stood, trapped. Lifting the baton was already a defeat. If he struck, everyone would know he was wrong. If he didn’t, he’d look too weak to handle a girl.

His hand trembled. The baton sagged. Slowly, with all eyes on him, he hooked it back on his belt.

Then he shifted sideways, making room. She stepped past, quick and steady, envelope tucked firm against her ribs.

No one took his part. No one took hers. Phones kept filming as she reached the door. The clerk opened it wide.

“Third floor,” he said softly.

“Thank you.”

She entered the building as if it were any other errand, passing out of sight.

On the steps, the sheriff stood with his green-rimmed badge catching the sun. In that light it looked like a toy.