Finally, after what felt like an interminable wait, the wail of sirens filled the air. Relief washed over me as a police car pulled up, officers quickly assessing the scene. They approached the man cautiously, speaking to him in calm, measured tones. To my surprise, he dropped the pipe and raised his hands, surrendering without a fight. The officers helped him down from the van and led him to the patrol car.
That’s when I found out who he really was. One of the officers approached me, asking if I was the owner of the van. “Yes, yes, it’s mine,” I replied, still shaken. “Do you know why he did this?”
The officer sighed, glancing at the man now sitting in the back of the patrol car. “His name is Daniel,” he explained. “We’ve encountered him before. He’s a veteran, suffers from PTSD. It seems he had an episode.”
My anger melted away, replaced by a profound sense of empathy. In that moment, I no longer saw a man who had destroyed my property but someone who was clearly in pain, struggling with demons I couldn’t begin to understand. The officer continued, “We’ll make sure he gets the help he needs. And you can file a report for the damages.”
