““Where did he go?” “That’s just it. No one ever heard from him again. The strain was obviously too much for him,” he said sarcastically. “What strain?” “Fatherhood. Good-for-nothing slacker. Never willing to grow up and take responsibility.” Mr. Beeston looked away. “What he did — it was despicable,” he said, his voice becoming raspy. “I will never forgive him.” He got up from the bench, his face hard and set. “Never,” he repeated. Something about the way he said it made me hope I’d never get on his wrong side. I followed him as we carried on along the boardwalk. “Didn’t anybody try to find him?” “Find him?” Mr. Beeston looked at me,””
