The air was stiff. But it moved, it had to move. Voices make vibrations, vibrations judder and bounce in the air, no matter how cold it is. Legs push air forward, arms suck it into circles. The news team on the scene described the mood as “electric”. But the anchor wasn’t yelling, pumping her fist in the air; she was speaking into a microphone. She wasn’t marching; she was walking backwards, letting the crowd pass her by. She had no idea.

He did. He must’ve. He clung to the curb, his steps crossing the yellow paint strips of parking spots. Around him, we gained momentum. But each new shout, each new voice joining a chant only made the air around him tighter, each new joining of hands only made his clench tighter. His eyes were wet, not dripping, just glittering under the streetlights. I wondered if he’d blame it on the air, the frigid, stinging air.

His hands gripped the curved end of his painted nuke, leaving shining streaks and blurry prints each time he shifted the weight of the silver casing. Above his hands, above his head, Bush and Cheney puppets grasped the same cold metal. I wondered if he’d call it electrifying – that closeness. They flopped about up there. Their papier-mâché expressions were more frightening than the ski mask hiding his. Maybe beneath the wool was a stubble beard, chapped skin, running nose. Maybe thick eyebrows and a strong jaw, softening into a double chin. It doesn’t matter, his face didn’t matter. Because when the streetlights hit the monsters above him, they looked like ghouls in an old horror movie. I wondered if he’d planned that.

The cops avoided eye contact with the crowd. They had been warned: visors down, batons ready. Yet they watched him pass by, coolly. How could he be a threat, he barely even opened his mouth for the rousing cheers of “No War, No Way” and “Impeach Cheney first.” Other voices hoarsened, cracked, disappeared, only to be picked up by another, another, another, while he marched.

His steps looked painful, as though each pound of the concrete ricocheted up to his head, like earthquake tremors, one after another. Yet, from where I was walking, his footsteps were unheard, merged with the crowd into a stomp, stomp, stomp. The news anchor likened the sound to a military march. I wondered if the sound brought flashbacks to his mind, if the shining in his eyes were like bombs exploding in his brain.