Jason's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 1
W76th, Chicago, IL, December 2, 1983
Benny was cussing Al Davis again. He did that regularly ever since the asshole had moved the Raiders and ruined the team. Milford who was a Bears fan, didn’t give a damn about the goddamn Raiders, suspected he did it just to piss him off. Then he thought that two of them were starting to act like an old married couple. The other cops were calling them ‘The Bickersons.’ They had been partners for ten years, which sometimes felt like fifty—not that one wouldn’t take a bullet for the other.
Milford adjusted his sunglasses against the late afternoon glare. Ten years of working Chicago’s streets had taught him to scan constantly—doorways, alleys, the spaces between buildings where trouble liked to hide. Benny was doing the same on his side, methodically sweeping while he bitched and moaned about Al’s greed and general assholishness. Their patrol car crawled through the strip mall parking lot at walking speed.
They’d seen it all: drug deals, domestics, gang shootings. Chicago was in the middle of a crack cocaine epidemic. The job had a way of filing down your edges until all that was left was razor-sharp cynicism. You built a thick skin, or you burned out. Simple as that.
“Movement behind the Burger King,” Benny said, pointing toward the dumpster area.
Milford pulled over and squinted. At first, it looked like just another transient going through the trash—nothing unusual in this part of town. But as they drew closer—
“Oh, fuck me.”
The figure rummaging through a split garbage bag was a kid. Barefoot, maybe six years old, skinny, all knobby knees and sharp shoulder blades visible through a dirt-stained blue t-shirt. Tangled blond hair caught the sunlight as the boy’s small hands worked through a burst trash bag an employee was too lazy to clean up.
You never get used to the kids.
As they were getting out of their shop, the boy’s face lit up. He held a white Burger King bag, crumpled but not empty. The kid stood up, cradling it like treasure, and pulled out what looked like a half-eaten Whopper.
“Ah, hell,” Benny muttered.
The boy tore into the burger with desperate hunger, sauce and lettuce falling from his small fingers.
“Easy does it,” Milford said as they approached him, using the gentle cadence he used with spooked witnesses. “Hey there, buddy. We’re not going to hurt you.”
When the little boy spotted them, his brown eyes went wide. He started eating faster, shoving chunks of the burger into his mouth.
“It’s okay,” Benny called out, raising his hands to show they were empty. “We just want to talk.”
The boy clutched the bag to his chest and bolted.
Milford cursed under his breath as they gave chase. The little guy was quick. He dodged between cars, his bare feet slapping against the pavement, the burger bag still pressed against his ribs.
They cornered him against the chain-link fence behind the dry cleaner. The boy’s chest heaved as he backed against the metal links, trapped but still defiant. He kept shoving the burger into his mouth—bite after frantic bite—while brandishing a white plastic fork at them.
“Mine!” the child managed around a mouthful of food, waving the fork at them.
“Nobody’s going to take your food,” Milford said, crouching down to make himself less threatening. “You can keep eating. It’s okay.”
The boy kept stuffing the burger into his overfilled mouth.
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