Perry was an unusual paper boy with a sweet and quirky nature. He was not paid to run a route, he did so on his own. More unusual was that he did not deliver current newspapers. Perry you see, liked to collect old papers at garage sales, and off of ebay, then randomly deliver them to the neighbors. Most of the neighborhood thought it was funny. No one really seemed to mind, and a few of the older neighbors actually enjoyed it. Certainly none of them had complained to his parents who were willing to indulge a little creative eccentricity. People had even begun donating old papers from all over to his odd little cause.
One rainy afternoon Perry was making his rounds. He was down to the last two houses. Mr Wilson, he knew, for some reason enjoyed the Chicago papers in particular, and Perry liked to please his customers. He'd just the other day gotten a copy of an August 17, 1974 Tribune. Smiling he slung it onto the front doorstep, before continuing on his way.
Mr. Wilson hearing the thump went to retrieve his paper. Seeing Perry off in the distance, he hollered at him a friendly thank you, which Perry happily returned as he rode on. Inside Mr. Wilson settled down to his paper. As he scanned it, he noticed the date and lead story. All the blood rushed from his head. If anyone had seen him at that moment they would have called an ambulance. After the initial shock he was up and pacing around.
Things had to be weighed out... That's all, he thought to himself.
The one condition Perry's parents had was limiting his route to once a week. That was to make sure he wouldn't become an annoyance to everyone. As Perry pulled up to Mr. Wilson's house the following week, something seemed different. The garbage can had never been taken in from the week before, and the mailbox was so full it couldn't close properly. He decided to knock on the door and check on his older neighbor. Outside was easily a week's worth of papers. Current last week, but not anymore. Perry's favorite kind.
He knocked on the door and after receiving no answer, knocked again. Perry made his way around to a window on the side where the curtains hadn't been drawn and peered in. There on the ground he could just see the foot of Mr. Wilson. He bolted back to the door of the house and finding it unlocked entered. What greeted him was something no kid should have to see. Perry instantly turned and fled screaming.
Behind him in the house lay Mr. Wilson's lifeless body in a pool of blood. Beside him was a gun and the copy of the Tribune Perry had delivered. On it, above a story of a murdered girl, scrawled out in big letters were the words, "I'm sorry". For a man who had lived with what he'd done for decades, it wasn't old news, it was ever pressing.