"Hey, Dad?"
Micheal looked up from the book he was reading on the back patio of his house. At roughly forty-five years old, he had reached his middle age rather gracefully. Brushing a stray lock of his notoriously unkempt hair aside, he glanced over his shoulder to see his son, Timothy. Folding the corner of a page over to mark his place in the novel, he turned to face his child. "Hey, sport. What's up? I thought you and your friends would be playing that new game of yours. What number is it up to now, Black Ops 28 or 29?"
