Soster glanced over, "I don't recognize him."
"His father... is the FBI agent you blew up." Anthony carefully put away the photo and sighed, "He's only five years old this year, a very adorable kid.
Yesterday... I went to his house...
He asked me, 'Uncle Anthony, where's my dad? Why didn't you bring my dad back?'
At that moment, looking into his eyes, listening to his voice...
I couldn't answer, I couldn't face him, I felt utterly ashamed... Can you understand that feeling?"
Soster kept his head down, silent, his hands trembling slightly.
"Soster, when the child asks me for his father again, can you tell me what I should do?"
"You're asking the wrong person, I'm not God."
"OK, though it's a bit perfunctory, at least you've answered." Anthony then took out another photo, showing a five or six-year-old Caucasian girl, "Do you recognize her?"
Soster's eyes widened, his expression turning serious, "What are you trying to do?"
"Do you recognize her?"
"Yes."
"Who is she?"
