"I see," Mom said, folding her arms. Folding her arms was a bad sign. It was bad enough she hadn't offered them a cup of tea -- in Mom-land, that was practically like making them shout through the mail-slot -- but once she folded her arms, it was not going to end well for them. At that moment, I wanted to go and buy her a big bunch of flowers.
"Marcus here declined to tell us why his movements had been what they were."
"Are you saying you think my son is a terrorist because of how he rides the bus?"
"Terrorists aren't the only bad guys we catch this way," Zit said. "Drug dealers. Gang kids. Even shoplifters smart enough to hit a different neighborhood with every run."
"You think my son is a drug dealer?"
"We're not saying that --" Zit began. Mom clapped her hands at him to shut him up.
"Marcus, please pass me your backpack."
I did.
Mom unzipped it and looked through it, turning her back to us first.
"Officers, I can now affirm that there are no narcotics, explosives, or shoplifted gewgaws in my son's bag. I think we're done here. I would like your badge numbers before you go, please."