The Son Who Came Back

The cold night wind made me shiver.

The taco stand owner was about to take my food away when I quickly put 10 dollars on the table. Then I ran to the roadside and frantically waved down a cab.

Once I got inside, my hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't even light my cigarette.

What happened at Southvale Reservoir three summers ago was a nightmare I never wanted to remember.

Kevin had drowned because he had been fooling around. By the time they pulled him from the water, his body was bloated and his skin had turned deathly pale.

My ex-wife, Mandy Carroll, and I had cried our hearts out. I had personally watched every single procedure after Kevin's death.

Yet now, someone was telling me that Kevin had smashed another person's car.

By the time I arrived at the Southvale police station, my legs were cramping from the long run.

The atmosphere in the mediation room was heavy.

A bald man was slamming his hand on the table and yelling. "I don't care who he is! He smashed my Maybach, so he owes me 50,000 dollars! If he doesn't pay, I'll make sure he regrets it."

A young police officer frowned as he took notes.

A teenager sat on a bench in the corner.

He was covered in dirt and kept his head down, so I couldn't see his face.

But when I saw his shoes, I froze.

They were a pair of faded blue sneakers. A tiny picture of Superman had been drawn on one side with a marker.

They were Kevin's favorite shoes. I had personally put them on his feet before he was buried.

"You're Justin Weston, right? Please, have a seat," the officer said when he saw me.

But I didn't sit down.

I stared at the boy and asked in a trembling voice, "Officer, my son really died. Who is this kid?"

The boy suddenly flinched when he heard my voice.

Then he slowly raised his head.

His face was thin and pale. There was a small mole under his eye, exactly like Kevin's.

Even the shy look in his eyes was the same.

"Dad..."