It's My Fault
Washington, D. C., March 2030
Langley was on his way home when he passed a group of teenagers hanging out on the corner by the park. He brought the car to a screeching halt, rolled down his window, and almost called out. Almost.
He had been about to make a fool of himself again. About to shout his son's name to a total stranger. Fortunately he'd caught himself this time. Realized that the average-looking, long-haired kid on the corner was just that—a kid on the corner and not Eric. When was he going to get over this? Eric had been dead for years.
Langley drove along in silence, feeling like pounding his head against the steering wheel. Then his cell phone rang. "Hello?"
"Langley, it's Dennis. I just got a call from the man. Megan is awake. It's in spurts, but she talked.
