Ty was angrier about this, even, than I was. “Why is it,” she demanded a few steps down the path, stomping her feet and swinging her little arms as she said it, “that the police won’t ever believe you’re my Grandpa?” (Our earlier run in had clearly made an impression, though she hadn’t mentioned it in ages.) “Why do you think it is?,” I asked, hoping to fend her off with the Socratic method. She paused, then said sheepishly, “Because you’re white?” I grinned at her and said, “That’s part of it, for sure. But we don’t care about that, do we?” “No,” she said sternly as we walked across the bridge spanning Boggy Creek just south of 12th Street, “but the police should leave you alone. It’s not right that they want to arrest you for being my Grandpa.” More prescient words were never spoken.