EDT“How’d the meetin’ go?” Borgan asked.We were sitting at the concrete picnic table nearest the fountain in Fountain Circle. The underwater lights were on, and the spray was alternating blue, pink, and green.The tall streetlights were also on, full blare; Fountain Circle gets particularly crowded after dark, and running the lighting bright helps keep things . . . peaceful.Borgan had provided a truly enormous roast beef sandwich with two pickles on the side, and a couple of tall ice teas. The sandwich was cut into quarters, thank God, and I’d been kind of worrying at one quarter, staring out over the circle, maybe looking like I was people-watching, maybe looking like I was brooding, but, either way, not bringing much—or anything at all—to the conversation.Since I had in fact been brooding about the meeting, Borgan’s question hit home. Which shouldn’t, I thought, surprise me.“The meeting was . . . grim. Everybody’s upset. They want to fight, but they don’t know how, or who.
