Bleeding in the Police Station

I begin filling out the police report that is worded exclusively in Spanish. In the corner of the room is a functioning television. HBO Family channel has Lilo and Stich playing, but the more concerning question is why is the station chief watching Lilo and Stich? The first questions are all standard, inquiring my name, the date, stuff like that, but I start to struggle when it comes to the retelling of the heist. The verbs to punch and to rob weren’t a part of my Panamanian study sessions, and I have to interrupt the station chief from his paperwork for answers. He’s not amused when I ask, how do you say... and then jab my arms out. One word answers suffice when there’s no need to elaborate. I describe my assailants, what my camera looked like, and how much it is worth. After fifteen minutes of writing rudimentary Spanish explanations of the scene that took place, I hand the paper across to the station chief. A drop of blood blots on the desk, and I quickly wipe it with the palm of my hand.
“Now this one. One more.”
Exasperated, I ask like it will change the answer, “One more?” For the first time, the station chief’s eyes meet mine.
“One more.”
He hands me back the first report, and I begin copying verbatim what took twenty minutes to put together. By the time I finish the second, the small hand the on the wall clock is stiff on the one. I hand it across the desk, not knowing what to expect next.
“Good.”
The station chief stamps both copies, and slides one across the table.
“You can take a cab home.”
Not knowing how to ask more politely, “I want a police car,” comes off aggressive.
“A cab is one dollar.”
“No, it’s four dollars. When I arrive, it is four dollars from right there.”
“No police ride. You can take a cab.”
Standing from the chair, I shake my elbows like a spoon full of hot soup before being transferred from bowl to mouth, pull down my shirt sleeves over the still crumpled base layer, and leave the station in silence.