“Not a lot.”
“Your hands are rough, not what I would expect of a reporter,” she said, knowing she was being forward.
Adam glanced at his hands. He didn't answer right away. “I help out at a school near my apartment.”
“What kind of school?”
“An orphanage.”
Laurel was surprised Adam would volunteer his time for anything. “Did you grow up in Chicago?”
“Mostly. I was born in Nebraska.”
“Oh, so you and your parents moved to Chicago from Nebraska?”
Adam was quiet for a long moment. “Not exactly. My parents died when I was a baby.”
“Oh. I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. I don't remember them.” He picked up a stone and skipped it across a quiet pool.
“Did you live with relatives?” Laurel didn't understand why she was so curious about Adam or why she felt free to probe. Maybe it had something to do with the way he charged into people's lives.
“No.”
Her curiosity piqued, Laurel tentatively asked, “Who raised you?”
Adam looked at her with a half smile. “Are you always so nosy?”
“Aren't you?”
Adam tossed another stone. “I grew up in an orphanage.” Ripples spread outward, reaching toward shore.
Laurel had never known anyone who'd been raised in an orphanage. Images of starving, beaten children filled her mind. “You lived there your entire life?”
“Don't sound so horrified. It wasn't that bad. I was adopted once, but …” He kept walking and grabbed hold of a branch, breaking it off a bush as he moved past. “My adoptive parents divorced shortly after I went to live with them. I guess things were bad before I got there, and they thought having a child would help. It didn't. Anyway, I was sent back.” Adam's jaw twitched, but he kept his easy pace.
“It must have been awful for you.”
He stopped and, wearing an amused look, said, “It wasn't a tragedy. It was my life. I'm OK.” He tossed the branch and watched it sail out over the stream, drop into an eddy, then bob through rapids. “I'm happy, and I have a good job—one that will take me places.”
“How long have you been a reporter?”
“I started at the newspaper about four years ago.”
“I've never known a reporter before. What do you do exactly?”
“I find news and write about it.”
“Did you always want to work for a newspaper?”
“No. Actually, I stumbled into the job. When I was a kid, I used to sell papers on the street. I was good at it. Sometimes I'd hang out by the office, and I got to know some of the reporters. They started asking me for favors. You know, get them coffee, donuts, stuff like that. One of them, Joe, let me tag along on some of his stories.”
“How old were you then?”
“Oh, about seventeen, eighteen. Eventually I wrote a story and asked Joe to take a look at it.” Adam gave Laurel a sideways grin. “Old Joe—he was tough. He told me it was awful.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don't know why I'm telling you all this.”
“Go on. I'm interested.”
“Well, I kept writing and Joe kept evaluating. He'd point out what I was doing wrong and what I was doing right. And I got better. By the time I left the orphanage, the Tribune had hired me on as a copyboy. With the money I earned, I bought myself a camera and began taking pictures to go along with the pieces I wrote. One day I got a chance at a good story.”
“About what?” Laurel asked, forgetting she hadn't wanted to talk to Adam.
“I came across a family sitting in the street, their possessions scattered all around. They couldn't pay the rent, and the landlord booted them out. It happens a lot. I took some pictures and wrote about how they landed there.” He shrugged. “The boss liked it. After that they started sending me out on more stories, and eventually I became a full-fledged reporter.”
Laurel kept walking and began to wonder why she'd been so angry with Adam. He didn't seem so bad. Maybe he was just doing his job.
The train whistle blew. “We've got to go,” Laurel said and headed back.
Adam followed. When they reached the train, everyone had already boarded. Adam handed Laurel up the stairway.
A bird-thin woman with mousy brown hair, a red nose, and round wire-framed glasses circling blue eyes stood just inside the door. The smell of camphor oil emanated from her. “Oh, Adam, there you are,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “I was wondering where you'd gone off to. I was beginning to worry.”
“You don't need to worry about me.” He glanced at Laurel. “Laurel, I'd like you to meet Miram Dexter.”
Miram grabbed Laurel's hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hello,” Laurel said, squeezing past the frail woman.
