“What do you mean you can’t find the kid?” Jim said, as he rubbed the bridge of his nose clearly unamused and very agitated with the situation. As his colleagues explained the situation of a mother calling the cops on her runaway daughter, who just so happened to be eighteen. He laughed bitterly before stood from his desk. “Always gotta do shit myself.” He grumbled, as he lit a cigarette as he walked out of the station.