I jogged slowly past, looking into eyes lit by a lone streetlamp. Their smiles were wide, their hands waving. As usual my question wove through my mind—should I be doing something to help these guys? Suddenly, I stopped. Something to help. Immediately a flood of memories washed over me. I was back in Bismarck, a 16-year-old tomboy waiting for Dad to come home—Dad, who went to all of my soccer and softball games, who was the image of everything right with my childhood. He came through the door one day looking strangely nervous. “Hey, kids,” he said to my brother and sister and me. “You think you guys could go hang out with your friends for a while? I just want to talk to Mom for a bit.”

我看着他们被一盏孤零零的街灯照亮的眼睛，慢慢从他们中间穿过。他们灿烂的笑着，挥动着双手。 和平常一样，我脑子里又冒出了这个问题：我应该做些什么去帮助他们吗？突然，我停了下来，过往的记忆涌了上来。我好像回到了俾斯麦，我那时是个16岁的顽皮姑娘，总是等着爸爸回家。爸爸总是不会错过去看我的足球和垒球比赛，在我的童年，爸爸总是对的。有一天，爸爸走出门外，神色紧张的看着我的兄弟姐妹们说：“孩子们，你们能不能出去和朋友玩一会儿，我有话要跟你们的妈妈谈谈”