Instructions: Same as last time.

The room remained silent.

No one dared speak.

The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, filling the silence with their relentless flickering.

Rogers lowered his eyes to the table.

For a long moment, he remained perfectly still.

Sal, Monroe, and Allen exchanged uneasy glances.

Sal frowned.

"...Is he asleep?"

Rogers slowly lifted his head.

A gentle smile spread across his wrinkled face.

Allen glanced at the detectives.

Sal looked impatient.

Monroe looked... uneasy.

The old man cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry."

His voice was gentle.

"I still find it difficult to talk about him."

No one interrupted.

Rogers smiled sadly.

"You never really get over losing a child."

His eyes drifted toward the empty corner of the room.

He gave a small nod.

His eyes shimmered with tears.

Almost as though someone had spoken to him.

Allen noticed.

His pen stopped moving.

"...Mr. Rogers?"

The old man blinked.

He slowly lowered his thumb from his mouth.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I get distracted sometimes."

Sal leaned forward.

"Can we stay focused?"

Rogers smiled politely.

"Of course."

It was soon replaced with a grin.

Sal tapped his fingers against the steel table.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each tap echoed through the room.

"You said your son died."

"Yes."

"How?"

Rogers met his eyes.

But before answering, he asked a question of his own.

"Do you have children, Detective?"

The room froze.

The silence seemed to pulse between them.

Sal frowned.

"What?"

"I asked..."

"Do you have children?"

Allen slowly looked up from his notebook.

Monroe shifted uneasily in his chair.

"No."

Sal answered firmly.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Rogers lowered his gaze.

"I was just wondering."

Sal's patience was beginning to crack.

"You don't ask the questions here."

"No," Rogers replied calmly.

"You only think you do."

Monroe shot Sal a warning glance.

Not now.

Sal exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair, tucking the hair that had fallen across his face behind his ear.

Allen finally broke the silence.

"Mr. Rogers..."

"You said you lost your son."

"Uh-huh."

"What happened?"

For the first time...

The smile vanished.

Rogers hummed softly, as though trying to steady himself.

He stared at his cuffed hands.

His fingers trembled almost imperceptibly.

"I blamed myself."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I still do."

Monroe swallowed.

Allen didn't write.

He simply listened.

Rogers closed his eyes.

He slowly rocked forward...

Then back again.

"When people ask how many children I have..."

"I still count him."

Silence.

Long.

Heavy.

Then...

"I suppose... I should tell you about Tom."

He lifted his head.

His tired eyes met theirs; something in them had quietly shifted.

It wasn't obvious.

It was just... there.

"It was the fifth of May."

"A warm Saturday morning."

"My son was twenty-three."

"He insisted on helping me on the farm."

A faint smile returned.

"He was a good boy."

"The best of us."

The smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

"I should've stopped him."

The room seemed colder than before.

Allen spoke gently.

"What happened?"

Rogers lowered his eyes to the table.

His lips parted.

"I heard him scream..."

He swallowed.

"...only twenty-two minutes after he got there."

Rogers' breathing became uneven.

His eyes remained fixed on the table.

They paused.

Allen waited patiently.

Sal leaned forward.

"What did you do?"

The old man closed his eyes.

"I ran."

"My wife heard it too."

"She ran after me."

"I remember shouting his name."

"Again."

"And again."

"My legs..."

He smiled bitterly.

"They weren't as young as they used to be."

"I kept thinking..."

"'Please let him answer.'"

"'Please let him answer.'"

"But he didn't."

Behind the two-way mirror, someone coughed.

Rogers swallowed.

"When I reached the field..."

He stopped.

His fingers tightened around each other.

Allen looked up from his notebook.

"What did you see?"

Rogers didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he looked toward the empty corner of the room once more.

His expression softened.

Almost as though someone there was encouraging him to continue.

He nodded faintly.

Then he turned back to the table.

"There was blood."

His voice was barely audible.

"So much blood."

Monroe shifted uneasily.

Sal remained still.

"It was everywhere."

"On the soil."

"On the crops."

"On my hands..."

"...after I touched him."

Allen's grip tightened around his pen.

"What happened to Tom?"

Rogers inhaled shakily.

"I..."

His lips trembled.

"I thought he was dead."

Silence.

"But then..."

His eyes slowly lifted.

"He opened his eyes."

The men froze.

"He looked straight at me."

Rogers' face lost what little colour it had.

"And the first thing he said was..."

He stopped.

His gaze drifted once more to the empty corner of the room.

The gentle smile returned.

"No..."  He whispered.

"I'm not ready to tell you that part."

Sal shot to his feet.

"Oh, come on! You don't get to decide what you tell us!"

Rogers looked at him calmly.

"I know."

"But if I tell you what my son said..."

He glanced at each of them.

"...none of you will ever look at that restaurant the same way again."

To Be Continued...