Next thing I know, I turn around and he’s full-on chatting up two California Highway Patrol officers by a table near the front entrance like they’re his long-lost uncles.

I panicked at first, ready to apologize for him bothering them, but before I could even step in, one of the officers crouched down to his level and handed him a shiny sticker badge.

My son puffed out his chest like he’d just been promoted. Started asking about their walkie-talkies, what the buttons did, and—this part I’ll never forget—whether they “eat donuts or just save them for emergencies.”

 

Both officers burst out laughing. One of them, Officer Raynor, looked at me and said, “You’ve got a future detective here.”

I smiled awkwardly. “Yeah, or a very persistent negotiator.”

What was supposed to be a five-minute errand turned into a full thirty minutes of my son sitting on a bench, legs swinging, hanging on every word these officers said. He asked about their patrol car, whether they ever caught “bad guys with banana peels,” and even offered them a bite of the granola bar he had in his pocket. (I intervened on that one.)

Eventually, I thanked them and said we had to go. They both told him to “stay out of trouble, Deputy,” and handed him a little CHP coloring book and junior officer card before we left.

I thought that would be the end of it.

But the next day, as I was packing his lunch, he asked, “Can we go to the bank again? I need to show them my drawing.”