Error. [H.S.]

1.

Present Day.

Scotty Klein.

A rhythmic pattern tapped from each flattened key as my nimble fingers lured words across the dim laptop screen. Each stroke was factual, yet lacking the motive - the truth failed to be uncovered, leaving a story with no conclusion. Tucked away in a manila case file were memories that once radiated life through the atmosphere, now quickly vanished into a simple curse; a reminder of what once was before heinous danger crept in. Hours had past since I sat before the screen, furrowed brows meant to maintain my focus while I buried myself in immense research for my next assignment. With a deadline nearing in a few short weeks, the clock was threatening to damage my career before it began. A deep sigh rolled from my lips, my head collapsing into my hands in defeat. Warmth radiated from my cheeks, validating my internalized ideation that I had absorbed too much screen time. My words failed to flow, no connection sentence ready to puzzle piece a smooth transition to bring light to the following details.

"What's going on, Scotts?" A familiar authoritative tone broke my frustration, drawing my eyes north to connect with a pair identical to mine.

With the winter semester nearing a close, our final assignment within the Investigative Journalism major tasked us with the challenge to write about a case that went cold. As a co-requisite to the final classes in our major, each student was required to take an internship over the duration of the school year in a setting that would most benefit the type of journalism we sought a career in. For me, my passion fell within criminal reporting. From local robberies to gang activity to murder, if there was news to report, I was ready to dive into the details and uncover the motive. At least, that's the intention and expectation when writers block wasn't so prevalent.

For the past four months, my major has allowed me to finesse a paid internship with my father, Sergeant Luca Klein, the active Team Lead for the Brooklyn Precinct of the NYPD Emergency Service Unit - the New York equivalent of SWAT. While shadowing him and his team around their precinct, my off-road journeys stray from far to few, only tagging along when my safety was guaranteed, or when I would be beneficial to the task at hand.

"I'm ready to throw the towel in, dad." Propping my chin on my perched hand, I couldn't help but shake my head in annoyance. "It's official, words hate me."

A snickering laugh erodes from my dad's lips, his focus directed more towards the cup of mid-morning coffee he was concocting. "Don't be so hard on yourself, you picked a tough case to go into detail about. There's not much to it, that's the whole reason it went cold." Despite his efforts, his words failed me too. "Investigative journalism isn't for the faint of heart. You wouldn't have excelled this far in your program and internship if you weren't talented."

"You mean the internship you pulled strings for me to get?" I raise my eyebrow up in questioning, but I couldn't conceal the smile slowly growing across my cheeks.

My appreciation for my dad was greater than I could ever express, and while sitting across from him in the dark toned precinct kitchen, my ability to deny my gratitude for him was non-existent.

"C'mon, Scotty, give credit where it's due. You got the internship on your own." He reminded in his fatherly way to always keep me positive. "I just nudged the idea for it to be a paid internship." His broad shoulders bounced with his thick laughter, his own amusement echoing from the stained cabinets.

"Yeah, yeah, self love and all that." My eyes fell back to my nearly blank screen, the motivation to excel taunting me in a vicious game of hide-and-seek. After nearly a minute's worth of a narrow glare, even the formatting of my name in the corner looked incorrect. A gust of intimidation swept over me, defeat tightening in my chest as I wasted no time slamming the laptop screen down to meet the keyboard.