Except for a few pigeons, Central Park was deserted. Mist hung above the chilled grass. Patches of old snow, scattered here and there, looked like white puddles. The sun hung just above the horizon, casting red and orange streaks across low-hanging clouds. The portly, gray-haired gentleman jogging down the path looked out of place. For one thing, he was dressed in ordinary street clothes, not a sweat suit. Also, every few seconds, he looked anxiously back over his shoulder. Coming closer to me, I saw that his face was flushed. He was panting, almost gasping. Abruptly, looking this way and that, he moved behind a tree. Seeming not to notice my presence, he stood with his back against the trunk, panting heavily. After a moment, he poked his head out to survey the path. It was still empty, except for a squirrel that dashed across the path like a furry dart. I checked my watch. It was now 7:30. Mentally marking the time, I aimed my camera toward the man's face.
Since there is no exact question on the story
provided, I will be basing the answer at the last sentence, the moment when the
narrator in the excerpt ‘aimed his camera toward the man's face’. When he did
this, the man in the excerpt as narrated was letter A. Hiding behind a tree. The
narrator here aims to capture what was happening at 7:30 in the morning as an
observer and photographer trying to capture the moment in the stillness of the
morning.