On our fifth date, she sat across from me, sipping iced tea with that warm, soft smile.

“I don’t know.” She said, softly. “You seem like the type to take care of your own.”

I didn’t think about it at all, back then. Not until I got a phone call, three in the morning, thirteen years later.

---

I don’t know what woke me before the phone rang, but I know I was thirsty. Half-tumbling out of the clutches of my heavy blanket, I rolled out of bed and sat up, balls of my feet touching the cold floor. It was early April, but the night air still chilled my apartment. I must’ve been the only person in Philadelphia who wasn’t waiting for the heat-wave they’d been predicting for the last month.

Getting to my feet, I walked out into the dark hallway, trying not to trip over anything. The darkness, coupled with my blurry sans-glasses vision, turned my opaque apartment into a forest of shadows. I had to keep my hands on the wall to stop myself from slipping and falling over my own rug. Then, at the end of the hall, I turned toward the kitchen and stubbed my toe against the corner.

Hissing a curse, I stood still a moment, then finally walked into the kitchen. I felt around for the refrigerator, and when I finally found the handle, I opened it and smiled in triumph. Light. And Milk. I reached for the carton and grabbed a glass from the cabinets above. Little successes always feel better than nothing.

Opening the carton, I was just about to pour when the phone in my room started to ring. I stopped mid-motion, and looked at the clock. Who calls someone at three in the morning? Putting the carton onto the counter, I shut the fridge and made my way back to the room, just in time to pick up the phone on the third ring.

“Hello?” My voice was gruff, I know, but only because it was too early to be polite.

“Peter Gen?” The voice on the other end didn’t sound much friendlier.

“Yes?” I asked, waiting for a response. All I wanted was a glass of milk, and some sleep. “This is he. How may I help you?” I prayed to God it wasn’t a survey. I’d be up all damn night.

“Mr. Gen,” The voice sighed, just as tired as my own. “I’m Detective Louis Mason, of the Philadelphia Police Department.”

---

About fifteen minutes later, I was peeling out of the driveway, cutting off sidewalk pedestrians and missing other cars by a breath. The Mason guy had me so damn paranoid, I nearly missed every red-light in the city, trying to get to the damn police department. No amount of angry drivers behind me could get me to slow down. Hell No. I was pissed off. Beyond that, very confused.

Mason had told me to get my ass to his office. Apparently, he needed to go over a few things with me about my ‘charge’. That’s right. He said “Charge”. He even explained it to me; “Something Like A Godson”.

I don’t have a damn Godson. I don’t even have a brother or sister, and God knows I don’t have any children of my own. I asked him if he was sure he had the right Peter Gen. He said my number was on the ‘Godson’s’ Emergency Information cards. All of them. School forms, hospital forms, my number and address graced every form of security this kid had.

I swore up and down. Told him I didn’t know any ‘Gregory Myer’, and I’d never even heard of a ‘Phil Myer of Myer-Grezzo Auto’. He told me to get dressed and get down there, anyway.

The warmth of the summer night barely touched me, I moved so fast. Half the idiots walking around town this late probably would’ve been run over, had they not heard the screeching of my tires. It wasn’t the time of night, or the inconvenience that made me so mad. It was Mason. The way he talked down to me, the way he spoke to me so condescendingly, as if he knew the secrets of the world and I was a fool. As if he thought he was ten times my worth and could prove it. Those are the kind of guys that piss me off. And, well, at three in the morning, any hatred I might have for anything is tripled.

I tried to cool off, slow down. I was driving pretty fast and I didn’t need an accident on top of whatever this was. I lifted my foot from the gas a little, slowed myself down. My focus went to the road, just in time to avoid some asshole teenage driver who must’ve thought he was invincible. Close call. I cursed his license plate and kept driving.

The building, dark brick and surrounded by streetlamps, wasn’t too far away. The Philadelphia Police Department. The men with no time for small talk. These cops had a reputation for hot-blooded behavior. Last year, three or four of them stopped some kid in a hot car. Instead of just taking him in, they got into a nice little brawl, three against one. The kid was in the hospital for about a month. They got off with a demotion and a pay-cut.

Another reason I wasn’t too fond of Mr. Mason right then.

First thing, I had to find a place to park my car. It looked like a busy night for Philadelphia’s Finest. Finally, I gave in and dropped a couple quarters in the nearest parking meter. My head pounded at the thought of dealing with this without coffee. But, the fifty cents I’d just deposited in the meter cut my current pocket money in half.

The doors swung open and a man walked out, probably to take a cigarette break. I walked in past him, and he eyed me with some kind of suspicion I wasn’t familiar with. I brushed it off, walked inside, prayed that he wouldn’t talk to me.

Sure enough, the inside was bustling. People in every corner; yelling, crying, drinking coffee. The assaulting noise made my head thrum with an irritated pain. Looking around, I attempted to find Louis Mason without asking, but was unsuccessful. Nobody stood out.

“’Scuse me,” I heard from behind me. “Are you lost?”

I turned to face a dark-haired man who looked like he could rip me in half. “I- Yeah, I guess I am…”

He grinned at me. “Who’re ya lookin’ for?”

“Detective Louis Mason?” I tried, hoping he could point me in the right direction. He raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Peter Gen?” He shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair almost nervously. “You’re gonna wanna come with me, first.”

He turned and started heading down a hallway. I followed uneasily, only half listening to his idle chatter. I took in the uniform. Crime Scene Investigator. I shook my head to myself, forbidding my television-imagination from running away with me. He threw conversation over his shoulder, laughed at his own jokes. Then, when we turned a corner, he got around to the subject at hand.

“So, when we got to the kid’s place, he wasn’t there. We found him at the library, readin’ Don Quixote, and when we told him what happened, he was in complete shock. Complete shock.” He shook his head sadly. “Ain’t right. Boy losin’ his dad. ‘S the only thing he’s got.”

I nodded along, unsure of the whole issue, but keeping my eyes on my surroundings. We turned another corner, into a badly lit room that looked about as comfortable as the waiting rooms in the hospital. There were chairs and sofas and ugly old couches, all wrapped in plastic. In spite of every little painting on the wall, and all the light colored furniture, I felt no inclination to sit down.

The man nodded toward a figure on the other side of the room. “Poor kid.”

I turned my head to look at him, and I stared. Fiery hair, high cheekbones, a gaunt face with a dusting of freckles. His eyes were cold blue, and his chin was set in a hard frown, and all I could do was watch him. He had a cup of water, which he sipped from periodically, and I felt a small leap of recognition in my chest. His eyes, his chin, they were not hers. But Patricia was everywhere within this boy. He held her posture, turned her head, and looked at me with an inquisitive stare so much like hers I almost wondered where the blue had come from.

He was the spitting image of Patricia Grey. A woman whom I never should’ve recognized. A woman whom most would’ve overlooked without a second glance. But, I felt her here, looking at me through this boy.

He turned and stood, clutching a blue notebook in his hands and assessing me without duress. “Mr. Gen?” He asked, his voice strangely hoarse. “Peter Gen?”

I couldn’t get over it. Taking him in, his whole likeness, I wasn’t sure what to do. What do you say at a time like this?

“That’s… me…” He stepped toward me, ignoring my absolute bewilderment.

Then, he stretched out his hand to shake mine. His eyes reflected only cool fascination, which unnerved me then, and even now.

He stood about three feet shorter than me, looking up at me with a little doubt, but no fear. “Greg Myer.” He didn’t smile when he shook my hand. I didn’t smile either. Then, I heard footsteps behind me, and turned. A tall, powerful-looking man with a buzz-cut and a lethal stare was heading straight for me. I lifted my hand from the boy’s fingers, and turned to face him.

"Gen? Peter?” He asked, sizing me up. “I’m Louis Mason. Come with me to my office, and we’ll talk there.”