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Eastland (a novel)
By Rodrigo Haro
© 2026 by Rodrigo Haro
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 9798242720008
Independently Published
Also by Rodrigo Haro
Poems (poems)
Illinois (a novel)
Chicago (a novel)
South Chicago (a novel)
Content Test (a novel)
Short Stories II (stories)
Gangero (a novel)
Short Stories (stories)
“Imagination is not madness”
Michel Foucault, History of Madness, Folie et Déraison: Histoire de la folie à l'âge classique
“Women and kids/ [. . .] /
Motionless stiff”
Carl Sandburg, “The Eastland,” Chicago Poems
In memoriam of my niece, Penelope Chanel Vitela (March 29, 2018 - November 25, 2018)
Preface by the author
I wrote this book to explore the accident of the SS Eastland on the Chicago River in the twentieth century. I also wanted the history of my home, my neighborhood, and city to be known. My research or writing question was: how do these two things (my neighborhood, South Chicago, and the accident of Eastland) come together? What was going on in South Chicago during the time of the accident? I also wanted to explore these other questions: What connections do they have? Or, how do they collaborate to create a history of Chicago? How do they come together to create me? What influenced the creation of South Chicago and the Eastland disaster? How do I put them together?
For the most part, the story of Lisa is fictional. Although, some of the experiences are based on my relationship with my sister. I don’t know the past owners of my mother’s house (who is still alive and lives there) except the neighbors who sold it to her, and of course, I know my mother. What does it mean for first-generation immigrants to own property in another land? Does that mean a promise?
Everything else is fictional (as far as the history of the house is concerned). I don’t know when it was built or by who, although I am sure this information is available. Since this is an autofiction novel, many facets of the novel are autobiographical. I did meet a friend like Leah in San Francisco. I never told her the story of Eastland. I did see the plaque on the river and wanted to explore.
Everything else, besides historical analysis, is based on truth. The places and scenes are real. I did meet Leah and took her to a restaurant. Since this is also a historical novel, I had to create a scene or history to accommodate the tragic events that went on in Chicago in the twentieth century. I did this by fictionalizing historical events. My knowledge of history is as limited as yours, and all discrepancies are mine. My apologies for any discrepancies in historical analysis. Since this is both autofiction and historical fiction, I would like to call this genre and book, autohistorical fiction, or historical autofiction.
This is also an epistolary novel told to the fictionalized Leah who is based on a real friend. I met her in Calumet City, Illinois and re-met her in San Francisco. Since this is a story, a novel, the novel must be told and told to someone. The epistolary form solves many of the problems of this novel (and the genre). By having an audience, the genre can bend to the whims of storytelling, or better yet, storytelling is easier once a reader is reached. How else can we tell a story if we don’t know who is listening? We must know ourselves to know our audience. Unlike this novel, I never told my friend the story of the Eastland. I hope one day she reads this or knows about it.
Prologue: Eastland
People were in an accident on the Chicago River in 1915. There was a boy. On the day of accident, he dived repeatedly to save people. They were travelling Southeast on the SS Eastland from Chicago to the sand dunes in Indiana. The boat was full. Nevertheless, it ran down the river. There were people on the riverfront waving and cheering. People passed away. Three thousand people climbed aboard. The boy did not have time to leave. Eight hundred and forty-eight people lost their lives.
One-hundred and eight years later, I met a friend in San Francisco. I will tell the story from the end to the beginning. I booked a bed in a hostel. She was living there as well. Five years earlier, we had met. She picked at her face (like before). I told her my name. The silent H, an H without a sound. She told me her name. She had stolen my car. She told me she was from Pittsburg, the first night we met. I told her I was from Chicago. She was making a veggie pizza.
“What do you do?” was the first question I asked.
The girl was my St. Clare. Giovanni, the person later known as St. Francis of Assisi, had a walking partner like my friend in San Francisco. She took a walk with me after I took her to a restaurant. It was a vegan burger restaurant. We took a taxi there and walked back. It was a prayer walk. I enjoyed her company. We would accompany each other to stores and spaces. She made her way into her building, her hostel, by taking a fast right. I kept walking straight.
“Okay. I’ll see you soon,” she said (without looking).
“Okay. I’ll text you,” I said.
“Okay,” she said in a loud voice.
“Do you want to go to your burger place?” I asked through a text.
I entered the tobacco shop. I paid for a pack and a lighter. I walked outside and instantly my phone went off.
“Yes. Can we go to this place?” she asked in a text message, sending a link to the restaurant.
“Yes. Okay. I’ll be there soon,” I texted back.
I put my cigarette out and walked to the Hilton.
“Meet me in front of the Hilton,” I had texted.
I saw her there. She was sad, looking down.
“I want to apologize for leaving you in the hotel by yourself. I know I promised to go, but I have already stayed there,” I explained.
We had given each other a hug. I smelled the cigarette on my breath.
“Okay,” she said.
“Do you want to go upstairs?” I asked.
“No,” she said shaking her head.
“How do you want to get to the restaurant?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s far,” she said.
“Not that far,” I said. I walked a red SUV cab,
“Are you available?” I asked. “Yes,” he said.
“Come on,” I turned and waved to Leah surprised at my voice.
She climbed in. I closed the door behind her. We drove to the restaurant. The driver looked forward while we talked.
We got to the restaurant. I was confused and was not sure if I wanted a meal. There was a tablet attached to the wall. The restaurant workers were nowhere to be found. I tapped through the screens for her meal. I ordered her food, and a coffee. I picked it up. She got her drink. She ate fast, in grace. She had fries. I watched her eat. I drank my cup.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked.
“Do you want to take a walk?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. She kept looking at her phone, “Okay, this way.”
We walked straight. We talked along the way. We saw friends, women and men, walking together.
I used my voice to read Scripture at Immaculate Conception Church. I was eleven. I used a stepstool, and the priest kicked it out of the way to read the Gospel. I was too young and short. I had large shoes on (mine were torn at the bottom). My mom was sitting (nervously) silently (looking up at me) in her red suit. I paused. The whole crowd was looking up at me. I heard a roaring, “Amen.” I was surprised I had power in my voice. She used to iron my clothes. My mom used to phone my grandmother (calmly and presently) and tell her. “I have to iron clothes for Rodrigo. Mañana va leer,” she used to say.
Before the restaurant (a day before), I asked her if she would accompany me to a guitar shop.
We walked back to our hostel and stood at the entrance. I said, “you know what, when I was in Calumet City I was living with this girl in a hotel, and she stole my car. I never found her. Are you that girl?”
“No,” she said. “What were you doing though?” she asked.
“I was just hanging,” I said.” She never gave me my car again.”
“But what were you doing?” she asked while looking at me in the eyes.
I had met her through an ad, initially.
“I was just hanging out” I said.
“What happened to the car?” she asked.
“The cops found it and impounded it. I could not afford to get it out. There was a daily storage fee, plus a fee to drive it out. Stay here I’ll be back,” I said.
I handed her my guitar case and went in to get my duffel bag. I told the hostel manager what I was going to do. “I’m going to check out,” I said.
“You should not follow her,” he said.
It's very sad to live your life through someone else.
I went out and my guitar case was leaning against the building. I carried it in.
A few hours before we had walked to Fourth street and Bryant (in Mission Bay) and entered a guitar shop. I bought the cheapest sunburst acoustic guitar, a Yamaha, and a case. I saw the gray clouds gather.
“Let go this way,” I said.
We walked all the way back to our hostel around Mission and 9th.
Before the guitar we had breakfast at a pancake house.
“Do you want to have pancakes?” I asked.
“Yes, I do,” she said.
I had pancakes. She had French toast. We had all the coffee we could get. I used the bathroom down the steps and paid.
Before the pancakes, I had paid for her stay at a new hostel. She had accused the old hostel manager of negligence. I’ll pay for your stay, I said. “Do you want to have pancakes?"
I met her in front of The Hilton the next day. I apologized.
“Are you that girl?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“I forgive you,” I said.
I apologized for leaving her at the new hostel alone. I paid for her new hostel for a couple of days (a hostel I had already been in). I had stayed before for free in her hotel at Calumet City, Illinois years five earlier. It was only fair to pay her back. We went out for coffee. She walked fast.
In Calumet City, her hair was cut short. She was living with a friend. They both took my car once for a ride (they picked me up and took me to Wal-Mart with them). Her friend told me, “Go get her,” or “go with her.” I went in the store and found her. We both went back to the car, my 2005 Dodge Neon. We drove back to the hotel. They escaped the state after. When she came back to Illinois she told me, “I went out of state.”
“What did you do with my clothes,” I asked.
“I sold them for money,” she said. “I sold the leather jacket.”
“What about my iPhone?”
“I put it in a box that gave me money in the mall,” she said.
She stayed behind. She moved close to South San Francisco, and the airport. We sent each other text messages. She sent me a picture of her home. I was surprised she was texting me.
I asked her, “What were you doing in Oakland?” through a text. “I saw you at Fruitvale train station,” I sent.
“I don’t know. I was not there,” she sent. I had moved to the East Bay to escape.
I saw her walking by the bus stop (outside the station). She was wearing her black tights. She walked away and I recognized her. In a low voice I said, “Leah.”
I went home to my new apartment (like a Petrarchan Sonnet I was loving her from afar). I texted her, “Why were you in Oakland on Fruitvale? Why didn’t you say hi?” She of course did not respond until much later.
I saw her on Mission Street when I was waiting for the bus. I was on 9th Street.
“I have tryouts today,” she said as she was passing by. She rode her long board through the street. I got on the bus to the airport.
She invited me to join her at the gym when we were living together. I woke up to my phone and these messages.
4:29 am. “hey I think you can come with me.”
4:31 am. “Alright after the gym we can get some coffee.”
She had bought a small coffeemaker for us to use.
“I got you a coffeemaker,” she said as I saw her go down the stairs.
“Oh. Yes,” I said.
She ran up and I saw her again thirty minutes later. I had asked her, “Do you want to smoke?” I had a pre-roll. I smoked my cigarette and then saw her on the front porch.
“These are my pants,” she said. I saw camouflage pants.
“Hey,” I said.
“I have to go to work,” she said.
She walked away.
I texted her moments later, “Do you want lunch?”
“Yeah. I’ll take the sandwich.”
I responded, “It’s in the fridge.”
I heard her in the kitchen and came out.
“Oh, you found the sandwich,” I said.
“Yeah. Thanks. I went to do laundry. It was free,” she said.
“Oh. Okay.” I said and stayed in my room.
She went upstairs to her room.
Eventually I gave her a coffee from the shop. She put it down. We were walking with our coffees together. I rubbed her back once. I rubbed her back again. Instantly, she did a 180 and walked back to the house. She left her cup on top of the table. She ended up moving out that day, the day of the pancakes, guitar, and fight.
I told this story to her after she left. “I was reading the other day, and I found this story. Listen for a bit,
“The river was used for tours. It was still and quiet that day. The SS Eastland was scheduled to sail that day, July 24, 1915. The ship almost capsized at the beginning. About 2,500 travelers climbed aboard. They were downtown on Clark Street. They were working at Western Electric. The boat was unsafe. There were four other boats taking company workers to Michigan City, Indiana for the picnic. When the boat filled it lopsided to one side. The side facing the pier leaned. It filled with approximately 2,500 people. A couple of minutes after sailing, the boat turned on its side completely. 844 people lost their lives that day, July 24, 1915, on the Chicago River. The SS Eastland could not hold them all. The riverbed was only twenty feet below the surface. People were rescued. Bodies under the capsized boat were taken out. A girl laid in a rescuer's arms. Many of the workers on the boat were immigrants, Polish, Italian, and German. One other boat came close to the SS Eastland to join the rescue effort. The boat filled to its capacity (and more). Once the boat was lopsided the crewmen tried to straighten it out by filling the ballast tanks with water (to no avail). It was too late. There were people underneath. There were people on top. Eight-hundred and forty-four people lost their lives”
She stayed silent afterwards. She went back upstairs, and I went back to my room to be alone.
Eight-hundred and forty-four (or maybe more) passed away. Their bodies were on the Chicago River.
* * *
I later told her, “a young man dove repeatedly looking for survivors. He was the only one agile, small, and fast enough to dive. He saved people. He must have been exhausted. Rest in Peace.”
We were in the same room eating. She stayed silent.
I had a ring for Leah. I went all the way to the Mission District to buy the ring. I placed it on my shelf. She got me a job at the San Francisco Airport.
“Are you going?” she asked.
“Yes, I am. I’ll see you there,” I said.
She left the job soon after.
She was touched inappropriately. Someone had kissed her by the lockers. She had filed a complaint with the office. The office had re-assigned her to another department.
“This is retaliation,” she had told me at home. “They put me somewhere else and told me to do stuff,” she had told me afterwards. She quit and texted me the link to apply.
I went in for an in-person interview.
The manger asked me, “Who do you know here?”
I waited about five seconds. “No one,” I said.
The manager gave me a tour of the factory.
When I saw her again, I exulted, “I went to your job!”
“You did?” she asked.
“Yes. Were you there? I saw the whole plant.”
“Yes. I was there,” she said. “When are you starting?” she asked.
“I have orientation in a week,” I said.
I started the job. A week before, she was waiting for me in the kitchen after coming from work. She asked me, “Don’t you think it’s better for both people to work and make money?”
“Yes,” I said.
I told my friend after she left,
“The boat leaned to one side then righted. The boat steamed ahead a bit. It leaned again all the way. The boat capsized in the river. The other boats had left except one. The people were trying to get out. The boat sank. The destination of their trip was Michigan City, Indiana and the beach, and sands, there.
There were other crashes on the Chicago River. After the accident they took all the bodies out. There are pictures. There were children, twenty-two families were lost. The boy kept jumping into the water to save people. The boy jumped and jumped and jumped. They took the bodies out and laid them down on the ground. Some were warehoused to be identified. The river was twenty feet deep with a boat filled with three thousand people. Eight hundred and forty-four people lost their lives.”
I never saw my friend again. There are those who seem to be in view. May they Rest in Peace.
Part 1: Chicago
Chapter 1-Eastland
844 souls lost their lives on the Chicago River in 1915. This is their story. The rescuers warehoused the dead. They were laid side by side. They identified all the lost lives by name. Whole families were lost. It took them minutes to perish. They are known to us. Their ship, the SS Eastland tipped over. There were almost three thousand people on the boat. Some were rescued; others were pulled out lifeless. A teenage boy who was agile and small enough to enter the tipped-over ship dived in repeatedly to save lives.
I told this story to Leah. We were living together. She never understood us, our past, our present, our future. She screamed at me once, “Do you want me to take away your eggs?” when I had an empty plate. She texted me weird, out-of-mind text messages, “I have written down everything you said.” She was always looking for a way out, looking to explode, or cause a situation. She delved into extraneous things. She told me once, “Do you think we get taken away from sex?” I stayed quiet. I had met her before. I knew she was stable, or at least trying to be stable. She could never stay put except early mornings. One morning, I saw her on the couch staring at her phone. I felt her soul. She was warm. She did not get up. We stayed still. Why couldn't she tell me the truth, that she was the girl I had met, and stay honest? What was the point of lying? She got up and said, “I have to catch the bus.”
There were people (vast amounts of people). There were people on the river, the Chicago River.
I keep thinking of Leah, the girl I met, re-met and re-met. Where is she now? Will I meet her again? I met her in 2023 in San Francisco, and in 2014 in Calumet City, Illinois.
There was a funeral director and embalmer, taking care of the people identified (Rest in Peace). He took care of the people under his dominion. He traveled to get the bodies of those identified. He provided his services. He went West and back to the city.
I saw Leah in new, tight clothes walking down the road at the Fruitvale station. She did not said hi or turn around. Everything was out of mind (unless she stayed calm, still, and silent). At times, I saw her in her heart, and she would say things to be by my side. She would make dates, offer condolences, and peace. More than peace she offered me her heart, soul, and mind. I saw her on the couch, on her phone, waiting for me to say things of love. I saw her wait for me to say, “Do you . . .?" but I never said those words. I saw her go down because I could not get up. The future we envisioned was a-ways away but close. We only had to pursue our souls. The danger lay in jealousy, rage, and obstructions. I saw myself deny myself (I got up late, and she stayed seated). She walked out while I took a right to my room (unwisely not going straight). What was felt was temporary but felt permanent. This was in 2024.
Leah, if you are reading this, this is the rest of the story. I read a novel by a writer from South Chicago titled Eastland by a writer named Rodrigo Haro. Here is the text:
Eastland by Rodrigo Haro
There was a girl named Lisa. She lived in South Chicago. She was fifteen. This was in 1915. Lisa’s dad had entered the U.S. He was Polish.
In 1915, the Eastland SS turned over in the Chicago River. People were standing watching the disaster unfold. The boat turned almost three thousand people on board. Eight hundred and forty-four souls lost their lives (Rest in Peace). The people were working class. They lived in neighborhoods like South Chicago on the Southeast Side, the neighborhood I grew up in (and the West Side, Lawndale and Cicero).
In 1915, South Chicago was mostly Polish, Irish, and African American with a rising population of Mexican and Mexican Americans. (Lisa had not seen her dad in months). People had escaped the Mexican Revolution that restricted religious gatherings. They were not allowed to practice Catholicism. Like many, Lisa’s dad abandoned all and took a job in a steel mill. The neighborhood flourished but was segregated from the rest of the city. Built on harbors, lakeshore, and open fields, the land of South Chicago lives abundantly.
Lisa’s dad had taken a job from an enganchista, or labor agent.
Ten thousand people saw the boat turn over and eight hundred and eighty-four people lost their lives on July 24, 1915. There were people responsible for the people and the safe passage. The accident was not purposeful. It was a disaster, an accident. The workers needed their jobs. The company (and other boats) provided travels to the South Shores of Indiana. Who was responsible? After the disaster there was an inquiry, and a trial holding the captain, owners, and others accountable. No one served time. Most moved on to careers (in the Chicago Park District and Major League Baseball).
The people, Mexican, escaping religious persecution in Mexico settled in South Chicago. Some were repatriated or went back willingly. Those that stayed formed community alliances, organizations, and a church. Like most immigrants, they dreamt of going back to their home country with money for their families. Once in South Chicago they formed a tight knit community of Mexican and Mexican Americans (that was different yet unified with the rest of the Mexican communities in the city). Because of their unity this small enclave formed an identity (rooted in their neighborhood).
Lisa waited patiently for the evening paper. Her dad had accepted a job from an enganchista, or work agent, who charged (or took from his check a fee for finding him work). He took the job. He left soon after losing it. In the evening, she set out to the newspaper stand selling the Chicago Tribune on 92nd and Exchange Avenue. The paper glowed with the headlines, and the picture of a rescuer (scared for his life) holding a young girl in his arms, men in suits stared (as if the reality of the dead and rescuer in front was not real). (RIP). The shock of the tragedy seemed to collapse once seen face-to-face. She read the headline then ran to her mom who read.
The people were found. They were identified. What does South Chicago have to do with Eastland? Michigan City, Indiana is close to South Chicago. (The picnic was on the lake.) Other than the location of South Chicago being close to Michigan City (both Southeast of downtown), in which other way to these two connect?
Her dad left the mill. She wanted to show her the newspaper as soon as she saw him. He must know by now.
The boat was later used as a vessel for Navy training, renamed the USS Wilmette. It shot down a U-boat in training. Franklin D. Roosevelt traveled on it. It was eventually scrapped for metal, but the lives lost or the people that helped cannot be forgotten. The memory of this must live. May They Rest in Peace.
May July 24 be celebrated as a commemoration to the faithful departed.
South Chicago sits atop the harbor. Calumet Harbor connects it to the other neighborhoods (Deering, Hegewisch, and the East Side) of the Southeast Side. The bridge connects, and there is a mass petcoke pile of dust (the afterburn of petroleum). The harbor holds this dust. This petcoke settles in our lungs, and food, by way of our earth, and water. The earth and home gardens are poisoned by this petcoke. The food grows in this earth. The toxins grow in our food. The nearby stench of oil production (in Indiana) can be smelled by Indianapolis Boulevard drivers. The Park, Calumet Park, is a national treasure, an environmental hub of nature (an arboretum, a lake, and playground). The park (with the lake) creates a contrast with the petcoke dust nearby (between environment and pollution). The two sites are only a few miles apart. What do we do with this land? It seems we must keep it clean. The petcoke must vanish from the harbor.
The neighborhood, part of Chicago, has always been a hidden treasure. There are many plans for the neighborhood. There are many other neighborhoods developed, filled with tenants, but South Chicago stands as the behemoth neighborhood that clears the rest of the city. There is Back of the Yards and Lower West Side (other Mexican American neighborhoods) that stand close (of a different essence), but South Chicago is the South of the South Side, “more South than the South Side.” The neighborhood (almost attached to Indiana through the East Side) stands as the outpost for the city gleaming from the lake.
Lisa read the paper. Instantly her dad knocked on her door.
“Look dad,” she said.
Lisa showed her dad her newspaper. “Tragedy,” it read. “Hundreds pass away.” The pictures of bodies floating on the river while others watched on the riverwalk (stunned and confused) with the boat overturned stunned Augosto. He settled into the home of 88th and Exchange (a small police station across the street). He read on the table while Lisa’s mom (Mary) cooked a plate for her dad. Today, there would be no fights. They usually fought (and this was the cause of their separation). The house, a small bungalow, was built to hold one family. It had three bedrooms (one too small that was a nursery room). The bungalow had a basement partially finished. The deed belonged to his dad although he kept a separate room on top of a house (due to his begruntled wife).
“What are we going to do about her clothes?” he asked Mary. They had discussed the topic before. Weeks before, she had asked for school clothes (the semester was only a month away and she they would take their time). She did not have the summer clothes but asked for school clothes instead. The endeavor was worthwhile.
“We can go today?” she said enthusiastically.
“I can’t go. Those Mexicans are taking over the town. Did you see them on Commercial? Goldblatt's? We can hardly get a set without their hands on them,” he said.
Lisa stood bemused. She knew she had asked too soon.
The neighborhood was slowly edifying into a small potluck of Polish, Irish, and newly arrived Mexicans. This was 1915. The enganchistas, or work agents, were bringing people over to work from the states of Jalisco, Michoacán, and Zacatecas. The war was still waging on, the twice fought revolution in Mexico with Francisco Villa holding the Northern states in place. Religious persecution was adamant, alive. The revolutionaries would not allow Sunday Mass or religious activities.
Lisa’s dad was of course Polish (and his generation had accommodated themselves to South Chicago, and any other outsiders who were not them). They had even established their church, Immaculate Conception Church on East 88th Street facing Commercial. The baroque, Cathedral style church galvanized the community. The spires, the cross, atop the bell tower, called the Polish immigrants to prayer.
He had not worked for Western Electric. He had stayed in the Southeast Side (at a steel mill). He worked at Carnegie-Illinois Steel Plant in nearby Hegewisch, a Polish American neighborhood.
Read in newspaper by dad:
The Eastland survivors and families of the deceased (RIP) received unsubstantial, low, or no payments after the disaster. A fund was created, but the bureaucracy to get through (the proof and paperwork) was a lot and rarely did families receive compensation. A percentage of those families of survivors received funds (although few won).
Families of children lost received more. Only a few received the funds set apart by the fund. There were hundreds of thousands of dollars available, but few were dispersed. Those families suffered. The few that survived were in debt with memories, trauma, and the loss of friends (and co-workers). It must have been hard for those families to persevere afterwards (much like the city of Chicago they must have moved on from that memory). The commissioner, and public officials (present) did not mention the disaster (in their public speeches). It seemed a faraway memory (something to be ashamed of, something that must not be spoken of something that must have been thought of as a failure). A failure of administration, a failure of management, and most of all a failure to save.
The families of those lost (those with dads, husbands, or mothers in Western Electric) must have lost a lot, all (some must have been homeless, or economically disadvantaged by the accident), or made poor or destitute. The children of those lost carried that loss. The parents who lost their children in the accident lost all they had gained, wanted, or cherished.
The children lost that day, including the girl, (RIP) in the picture being carried by a volunteer were lost to us. In an instant we lost a generation of kids to a money-making scheme, a machine made for money, a boat overburdened with money, (luxury, and money on people). The clothes people were wearing weighed them down (once in the river). Some sank, a man clutched the dress of a woman to save himself. She must have drowned (RIP). The people thrown overboard tried to swim, but the heaviness of their clothes did not allow them. For the survivors, the heads floating above the water meant that they (the ones watching) would live one more day. The dresses were the most expensive clothes they had. They were dressed for this occasion (to impress one another, and some spend part or more of their wage on their dress). They were dressed most of all to impress the company. The picnic was an event to see. The coworkers they had seen at work before in a new behavior.
He closed the newspaper and said prayer.
