“Watching cop shows on TV.”

“That’s just so you can point out inconsistencies. Name a real form of

entertainment. What was the last movie you saw? Or better yet—” He grabs

the notebook-size steel case that’s wedged between my seat and the center

console. My laptop.

“Here we go,” he says, flipping open the computer and clicking the History

button in my browser. “Seeing the Web sites someone goes to, it’s like looking

at the furniture arrangement of their mind.”

On-screen, the list isn’t long.

“SmartSunGuide.com?” he asks.

“That’s a good site.”

“No, that’s where you get Florida traffic reports and the public CCTV cameras

— to spot homeless clients who’re sleeping under an overpass.”

“So?”

“And this one: ConstructionJournal.com. Lemme guess: up-to-the-minute

building permits, so you can find all the new construction sites.”

“That’s where our clients tend to sleep.”

“Cal, you not seeing the picture here? No interests, no news, no sports, hell,

not even any porn. You’re a damn walrus,” Roosevelt insists, cracking another

pistachio. “When it’s walking on land, walruses are the most lumbering,

awkward creatures God ever gave us. But the moment it enters the water,

that sucker is quicksilver. Fwoooo,” he says, slicing his hand through the air

like a ski jump. “Same with you, Cal. When you’re working with clients, you’re

in the water — fwoooo — just quicksilver. The problem is, all you wanna do is

stay underwater. And even the walrus knows if it doesn’t come up for air, it’s

gonna die.”

“That’s a very inspiring and far too visual analogy. But I know who I am, and

I like who I am, and when it comes to ass-face restaurant managers who

treat money as some green-colored rosary, well, no offense, but I’m not for

sale. And we should never let our clients be, either.”

He rolls his eyes, letting us both calm down. “Can you be more predictable?”

he asks.

“I was trying to be complex.”

“Complex woulda been if you had taken the guy’s money, given it to Alberto,

and then told him to go back and use it to eat at the restaurant.”

I glance over at him. The pastor in him won’t let up. Not until I get the

message. As I try to save whoever’s out there, he still thinks he needs to

save me. I know he misses his parish, but he’s wrong about this one. It’s not

a crusade. Or an obsession. I could leave this job tomorrow. Or the next

night. Or the night after that. Tonight, though, isn’t that night.

“I’m still not for sale,” I tell him. “And you of all people shouldn’t be, either.”

Roosevelt leans back in his reclined seat and lets out a hearty laugh. “Yo

momma’s so fat—”

“Roosevelt, I shouldn’t’ve said that—”

“—the horse on her Polo shirt . . . is real!”

“You used that last week.”

“Yo momma’s so fat, in elevators, it says: ‘Maximum Occupancy: Twelve

Patrons OR Yo momma!’ ”

“Does that really make you happier?”

“Just take the money next time, Cal,” Roosevelt says as he twists a dial on

the old, stolen police scanner we superglued to the dash. The cops don’t care.

On homeless calls, they want us there first.

“—ave an eighty-six, requesting — zzzrrr — nearby units to Victoria Park,” a

woman’s voice says as the scanner crackles to life. The park is less than a

mile away.

Turns out this is the call I’d been waiting nineteen years for.

 

3

“Cal . . . I need help!” Roosevelt screams.

My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you

should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out

there, people know it’s worth it. I used one of them the day my mom died.

But tonight, as I sit in the van and hear the sudden panic in Roosevelt’s voice

— Across the wide patch of grass known as Victoria Park, he flicks on his

flashlight. But all I see is the bright red blood on his hands. No. Please don’t

let tonight be another.

“Rosey, what the hell’s going on?” I yell back, clawing over the passenger

seat, sticking my head out the window, and squinting into the darkness. He’s

kneeling over our newest homeless client — “86” on the radio means

“vagrant” — who’s curled at the base of a queen palm tree that stands apart

from the rest.

“It’s a bad one, Cal. He’s a bleeder!”

A ping of rain hits the windshield, and I jump at the impact.

If this were my first day on the job, I’d leap out of the van and rush like a

panicked child to Roosevelt’s side. But this isn’t day one. It’s year two.

“You got his Social?” I call out.

Kneeling at the base of the queen palm, Roosevelt tucks his flashlight under

his armpit and rolls what looks like a heavyset man onto his back. As the light

shines down — the lumpy silhouette — even from here, I can see the blood

that soaks the man’s stomach.

“His wallet’s gone,” Roosevelt shouts, knowing our protocols. “Sir. . . . Sir!

Can you hear me? I need your Social Security number.”

In my left hand, I’m already dialing 911. In my right, I prop my laptop on the

center console. But I never take my eyes off Roo-sevelt. Breast cancer took

my aunt, the aunt who raised me, a few years back. I don’t have many

friends. I have this job. And I have Roosevelt.

“Cal, I got his Social!” Roosevelt shouts. “Sir, were you mugged? You have a

gunshot wound.”

“Gimme one sec,” I call out. The computer hums, our tracking software

loads, and I click on the button marked Find Client. On-screen, a blank form

opens, and I tab over to the section labeled SSN.

“Cal, you need to hurry,” Roosevelt adds as the man whispers something. At

least he’s conscious. “He’s starting t—”

“Ready!” I insist, all set to type with one hand. In my other, I grip my cell

and hit send as the 911 line starts ringing.

Years ago, if you wanted to drive around and work with the homeless, all you

needed was a van and some Lysol. These days, the state of Florida won’t let

you pick up a soul unless you’re logged on to the statewide computer network

that tracks who’s where. The better to see you with, my dear. And the better

to see what diseases, medication, and psychological history you’re carrying

around as well.

“Zero seven eight, zero five, one one two zero,” Roosevelt announces as I

key in the man’s Social Security number.

In my ear, the 911 line continues to ring.

In the distance, refusing to wait, Roosevelt rips open the man’s shirt and

starts applying pressure to his wound.

And on-screen, I get my first look at his identity.

LLOYD RANDALL HARPER

DANIA BEACH, FLORIDA

DOB: JUNE 19 — 52 YEARS OLD

A swell of heat burns my chest, my throat. I can’t breathe. I open my mouth

to call Roosevelt’s name, but my lips won’t move.

LLOYD RANDALL HARPER

My father.

“This is 911,” the operator announces in my ear. “What’s your emergency?”

 

4

Darting between two oak trees, I race through the black park as the rain

collects in little rivers on my face. I ignore it. Just like I ignore my heart

kicking from inside my rib cage. All I see is him.

When I was little, I used to have fantasies about finding my dad. That he’d be

released early, and my aunt and I would run into him at dinner or while I was

getting a haircut. I remember being in church on the plastic kneelers, praying

that we’d find each other again in some dumb Disney movie way. But those

dreams faded as he missed my tenth birthday. And eleventh. And twelfth.

Within a few years, the childhood dreams shifted and hardened — to fantasies

of not seeing him again. I can still run them in my head: elaborate escape

plans for ducking down, running, disappearing. I’d ready myself, checking

over my shoulder as I’d pass the bagel place where he used to love to get

breakfast. And a few years after that, those dreams settled, too, entering that

phase where you think of him only as much as you think of any other dead

relative.

For the past nineteen years — for me — that’s all he’s been. Dead.

And now he’s crumpled at the base of a palm tree as a slow, leaky rain drips

from above.

“Cal! Med kit!” Roosevelt shouts.

I cut past the white gazebo at the front of the park, and my foot slips in the

grass, sending me flat on my ass, where the damp ground seeps through my

pants.

“Cal, where are you?” Roosevelt calls without turning around.

It’s a fair question. I close my eyes and tell myself I’m still in the poorly lit

park, but all I see is the tarnished doorknob in that spearmint-gum-and hairspray

room where my dad and I said good-bye. I blink once and the

doorknob twists, revealing the child psychologist assigned by the state. It’s

like that Moby song. When you have a damaged kid, you don’t ask, “How you

feeling?” You give him a crayon and say, “Draw something nice.”

I drew lots of nice.

“Med kit!” Roosevelt snaps again.

I scramble to my feet. Years of training rush back. So do decade-old escape

plans. I should turn around now. Let Roosevelt handle it. But if I do — No.

Not until—

I need to know if it’s him.

Ten feet in front of me, Roosevelt still has the flashlight tucked under his

armpit. It shines like a spotlight, showcasing the bloody inkblot stained into

the man’s silk shirt. As I barrel toward them, Roosevelt turns my way and the

armpit flashlight follows. There’s no missing the terror on my face. “Cal,

what’re you—?”

Like a baseball player rounding third, I drop to one knee and slide through

the wet grass, slamming the med kit into Roosevelt’s chest and almost

knocking him over.

“Cal, what’s wrong? Do you know this guy?” Roosevelt asks.

Grabbing the flashlight, I don’t answer. I’m hunched over the man, shining

the light and studying his face. He’s got a beard now, tightly trimmed and

speckled with gray.

“Shut it off,” the man moans, jerking his head back and forth. His eyes are

clenched from the light and the pain, but his face — the double chin, the

extra weight, even the big Adam’s apple — it can’t be.

“You’re blinding him, Cal!” Roosevelt says, snatching the flashlight from my

grip and shining it in my face. “What the hell is wrong with—”

“C-Cal?” the man mumbles, looking at Roosevelt. He heard him say my

name. But as the man turns to me, the light hits us both from the side. Our

eyes connect. “N-No. You’re not — You’re—” He swallows hard. “Cal?”

It’s an established scientific fact that the sense of smell is the most powerful

for triggering memories. But it’s wrong. Because the moment I hear that

scratchy, stumbly baritone — everyone knows their father’s voice.

Our eyes stay locked, and I swear, I see the old him under the new him, like

he’s wearing a Halloween mask of his future self. But as I study this middleaged

man with the leathery, sun-beaten skin — God, he looks so old — his

terrified pale green eyes, his twisted Irish nose . . . it’s more crooked than I

remember. Like it’s been broken again.

His hand shakes like a Parkinson’s patient as he tries to wipe flecks of blood

from his mouth. He has to tuck the hand underneath him to stop it from

trembling. He spent eight years in prison. It can’t be just his nose that’s been

broken.

“You okay?” Roosevelt asks. I’m not sure who he’s talking to, though it’s

pretty clear it doesn’t matter. Down on my knees, I’m once again nine years

old, pulling crayons from an old Tupperware bin. To this day, I don’t know if it

was my greatest fear or deepest desire, but the one thing I drew over and

over was my father coming home.

5

“Cal, you need to hurry,” the man with the ponytail called out across the

park. “He’s starting t—”

“Ready!” shouted the one called Cal.

From the front seat of his sedan, Ellis stared through his windshield, watching

the scene and knowing that coincidences this perfect were never just

coincidences.