“It’s hard being a reporter out here dad”, I responded a half smile.
My father chuckled and said “It’s New York, what did you expect. Son, I’m about to go out. Take care. “Wait, dad?” I said.
“Yes, John ?”
“Don’t you wonder how Max died? The police never even told us if he was murdered or anything."
“Yes, I think about it everyday”, my father said. His voice gotten lower.
“It’s been haunting me since my--”, my dad cut me off saying “I really have to go John, I’ll call you tonight, have a good day”, he hung up.
I could tell the subject was getting to him. I pulled out some black slacks and a blue collared long sleeve.
I got dressed, picked up my suitcase and cellphone, and heading out my apartment.
As I walked out of the apartment complex, this young homeless boy bumped into me. His hair was matted, clothes were dirty and had holes. However, his face was clean. He looked like a regular high school kid. His blue eyes were fixated on me.
“Are you John Vadner ?” the young boy asked.
“Yes ?”, I said wondering how he knew my name.
“Are you still a reporter at the Tribune ?” he asked. He must have read of one of my articles.
“Yes, I am”, I said with a smile. I guess I’m glad to be recognized for my work.