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“This is for the New York Times Magazine, correct?”
Tony was sitting across from a doctor, he had come for help– his son needed help, help that he couldn’t give him anymore.
“No– no, I'm sorry. This.. this is personal if that’s,” he pauses, his mouth shutting before he whispers out, “if that's okay.”
The doctor looked up at him through his glasses, “It’s absolutely okay, may I ask what– what this matter is?” Tony would glance down, fidgeting with his fingers.
“It’s about my son.” The grey haired man across from him would smile, putting his pen down for a moment. “Okay, how can I help?”
Tony exhaled, hesitating throughout his words. “He..” Tony started, cutting himself off.
“There are times that I look at him, my son that I raised, who I thought I knew better than most fathers knew their sons, and I wonder who he is.”
Tony would wipe a hand over his face, preparing himself before speaking up again. “He’s been doing all sorts of drugs, but he’s addicted to crystal meth, and– it seems to be.. the worst of ‘em all.”
Tony stifles a sob, contemplating his next words carefully. “And I think I'm here because I want to know everything I can about… everything.” looking back up, “know your enemies, right?” he adds. Making eye contact with the doctor for a split second he thinks of his rehearsed questions, “my two big questions are, what is it doing to him? And… how can I help?”