Page 68 of Strays
We wait for the “but.” It doesn’t come. Instead: “You gave them a way out before they caught a bullet to the head.”
Jay tilts his head, cautious. None of us really knows what to say.
“So... what now?” Shane asks.
Wilsbone snorts. “Now? You fill out your reports. Fontes is already upstairs giving his statement to the captain.” He stands. “That’s all for now. Good work.”
I trade incredulous looks with my brothers before we leave the office back to the squad room.
Afterward, the day drags on: paperwork, gear check, killing time.
It’s almost the end of the shift when we see Fontes again. “I just called my wife,” he says. “Told her I almost died today. And that you made sure we got out alive.”
He pauses. “She… wants to thank you in person. She asked me to invite you over for dinner. Sunday.”
The three of us freeze. I guess our lives are full of firsts these days, but a human officer showing us gratitude feels even more surreal than laughing together in a bumper car at the amusement park.
And it’s even more awkward, because Shane and I never meant to help him. He just got lucky he was with Jay.
I clear my throat. “That’s generous of her. But… we’ve already got plans on Sunday.”
Fontes nods like he understands, already halfway to turning away, but Shane stops him. “We’re doing a barbecue. You should come.”
Fontes blinks. Shane looks just as surprised by his own words as we are.
“You and your wife are welcome,” I add.
It isn’t something we plan to offer. It’s just… there now. Out in the air between us.
Fontes studies us for a long second. Then nods, slow. “I’ll tell her.”
Abby Moore, public Facebook post, April 2025.
(Shared over 2,000 times)
The inclusion obsession that has taken over this country has finally gone too far.
I never thought I’d have to say this about our own town, but here we are. In Bridgeport, Connecticut, there is a nyra working as a medical resident at Joseph Monsoon Hospital.
This isn’t a rumor. And yes, she’s being allowed to treat patients.
Just this past week, the hospital finally started informing patients and supposedly giving them the option to request a real doctor instead. But let’s not pretend this is real accountability. She’s already been working there for months. So how many people were seen by her without ever being told?
And while we’re on the subject, no one is answering the real question: what qualifications could a nyra possibly have to practice medicine?
To those who have come to my posts for years calling me a bigot and telling me to “educate myself,” this is on you. This is the world you wanted. This is what happens when people are too afraid to say the truth out loud.
I sincerely hope that when your child is sick, the one holding the chart at the end of the bed is her.
Let’s see how much “tolerance” you have then.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Barbecue Incident
Jo had made us a list of things we’d need for the barbecue, so on Saturday we pile into the truck and drive to Bridgeport to buy everything. Jay had already looked up where to get all the stuff, so we have a route planned out.
First stop is a home store for a charcoal grill and a basic tool set. The salesman must’ve smelled we’re new to this, because he tries way too hard to upsell us on some fancy gas model. But we stick to what Jo wants and grab a simple grill.
