It was on a park bench I found him. His placard, bent slightly in the shaft lay a few feet away, as if tossed aside, and his head was cradled in his hands. The picture on it was of a syringe with a red cross through it. Hunched, broken, face streaked with grime where the tears had run. "It hurts" he said. I asked him what did. He soundlessly held out his phone. There was a tweet bemoaning the number of arrests at that day's demonstration. The tweet said that if it had been a BLM demonstration, they wouldn't have arrested anybody. I took a tactful step backwards. "Don't feel bad" I said. I'd never seen him like this before. Peter had thrown himself cheerfully into every march he could for as long as I'd known him. Ever since the Poll Tax riots. It was his hobby. He marched both for and against the Iraq War, on the climate change protests before nipping into a bus shelter to get changed and join the counter protests. He'd dressed as a huntsman...