Jackson saw the attack but thought nothing of it. Not right away. Few people were exiting the North Vancouver Seabus terminal this late on a wet October evening, so when the slim man speedwalked out of the gate and veered into the older gentleman in front of him it was hard to miss. Slim guy corrected course and headed for the street without so much as a backward glance. The older man grunted, then recovered and carried on through the turnstiles. Jackson shook his head and hustled to catch the evening’s last harbour crossing.

The ramp to the Seabus gave a dull clank as he crossed. His autumn jacket drooped from the rain that had slicked the dark streets. He’d taken the day off from his massage therapy practice and spent the afternoon and evening doing what he did every October 5^th. He’d visited the North Vancouver container docks his father had monitored, the Port Authority building where his father had worked. Then loitered with his memories at the street corner where his father had met a street punk’s blade. Five years ago tonight.

Knife attacks don’t take very long. Don’t need to be big, flashy affairs. But they always leave a scar.