I take a job during the summer as a weekend crime reporter.
The first morning nothing happens. Mostly, I bend my ear over the police radio. I’m listening for a 30 — the code for homicide — but the numbers jumble together in a messy soup of cop lingo.
I have a list of police stations and call them and ask if anything is happening.
“No, we’re quiet,” the dispatchers say.
By the afternoon, the routine has become a bore. I drift in and out of conversations about stolen Xboxes and domestic disputes.
At dusk, I pull out my list and dial again.