About 'fifty shades of gray for men'|Fifty Shades of Grey: Suitable for Television Only
Ａ ｆｅｗ ｄａｙｓ ａｇｏ, ａｓ ｈｅ ｗａｓ ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｅ ｓｅｅｒ, Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ'ｓ ｄｏｃｔｏｒ, ａ ｔｈｉｎ ａｎｄ ｅｌｅｇａｎｔ ｍａｎ ｎａｍｅｄ Ｎｅｗｍａｎ ｐｕｌｌｅｄ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｓｉｄｅ ａｎｄ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｈａｖｅ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ ａｂｏｕｔ ｏｕｒ ｔａｌｋ?" "Ｙｅｓ. Ｎｏ." "Ｗｈａｔ?" "Ｙｅｓ, Ｉ'ｖｅ ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ ａｂｏｕｔ ｉｔ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ａｎｓｗｅｒ ｉｓ ｎｏ." "Ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ａ ｇｏｏｄ ｌｉｆｅ ｆｏｒ Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ?" "Ｄｅｆｉｎｅ ａ ｇｏｏｄ ｌｉｆｅ ｄｏｃｔｏｒ." "Ｍｒ. Ｃｕｓｈｍａｎ, ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｗｈａｔ Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｗａｎｔ? Ｔｈｉｓ ｋｉｎｄ ｏｆ ｌｉｖｉｎｇ? Ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｈｅ'ｄ ｈａｔｅ ｔｈｉｓ?" "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈａｔ ｋｉｎｄ ｏｆ ｌｉｆｅ ｉｔ ｉｓ ｏｒ ｈｏｗ ｈｅ ｆｅｅｌｓ ａｂｏｕｔ ｉｔ ｂｕｔ ｉｔ'ｓ ａｌｌ ｈｅ'ｓ ｇｏｔ. Ｉ ｗｏｎ'ｔ ｔａｋｅ ｉｔ ａｗａｙ ｆｒｏｍ ｈｉｍ." "Ｌａｙｉｎｇ ｉｎ ａ ｂｅｄ? Ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ ｃｌｅａｎｉｎｇ ｈｉｍ? Ｆｅｄ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ａ ｔｕｂｅ? Ｓｅｅｉｎｇ ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ, ｈｅａｒｉｎｇ ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ? Ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｈｅ'ｄ ｗａｎｔ ｓｕｃｈ ａ ｌｉｆｅ?" "Ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈａｔ ｈｅ ｓｅｅｓ ｏｒ ｈｅａｒｓ ｄｏｃｔｏｒ?" "Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ. ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｗｈａｔ." "Ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ ｔｈｉｓ ｈｏｗ? Ｈａｖｅ ｙｏｕ ｓｐｏｋｅｎ ｔｏ ｈｉｍ? Ａｓｋｅｄ ｈｉｍ?" "Ｔｈｅ ｔｅｓｔｓ ｓｈｏｗ..." "Ｔｈｅ ｔｅｓｔｓ." Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓｔｅｐｐｅｄ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｄｏｃｔｏｒ ｓｏ ｔｈａｔ ｔｈｅｙ ｗｅｒｅ ｎｅａｒｌｙ ｔｏｕｃｈｉｎｇ ｎｏｓｅｓ. "Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｍａｙｂｅ ｎｅｗ ｗｅ'ｖｅ ｇｏｔｔｅｎ ｉｎｔｏ ｔｅｒｒｉｔｏｒｙ ｔｈａｔ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｂｅ ｔｅｓｔｅｄ. Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｄｅａｌ? Ｗｒｏｎｇ ｓｑｕｉｇｇｌｅ ｏｎ ｙｏｕｒ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｓｃｒｅｅｎ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ ｐｕｌｌ ｔｈｅ ｐｌｕｇ?" "Ｎｏｗ ｈｏｌｄ ｏｎ..." "Ｈｏｌｄ ｏｎ?" Ｄｕａｎｅ ｌａｕｇｈｅｄ. "Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ａｌｌ Ｉ ｄｏ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｄａｙｓ. Ｈｏｌｄ ｏｎ ｍｙ ａｓｓ. Ｈｏｗ ｍｕｃｈ ｄｏｅｓ ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｐｒｏｖｅ ｔｏ ｙｏｕ ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ｙｏｕ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｈａｖｅ ａ ｌｉｆｅ ｔｈａｔ ｄｅｓｅｒｖｅｓ ｒｅｓｐｅｃｔ? Ｗｈａｔ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｂｅ ｃａｐａｂｌｅ ｏｆ ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈｅｙ ｃａｎ ｂｅ ａｌｌｏｗｅｄ ｔｏ ｌｉｖｅ? Ｓｍａｌｌ ｍｏｔｏｒ ｒｅｐａｉｒ? Ｔｙｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｓｈｏｅｓ? Ａｄｖａｎｃｅｄ ｃａｌｃｕｌｕｓ? Ｗｈｅｒｅ ｅｘａｃｔｌｙ ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｄｒａｗ ｔｈｅ ｌｉｎｅ ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ ａ ｒｉｇｈｔ ｔｏ ｌｉｖｅ ａｎｄ ｗａｓｔｅｄ ｓｐａｃｅ? Ｗｈｅｎ ｄｏｅｓ ｋｉｌｌｉｎｇ ｃｈａｎｇｅ ｆｒｏｍ ｈｏｍｉｃｉｄｅ ｔｏ ｍｅｒｃｙ? Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｐｒｏｔｏｃｏｌ ｈｅｒｅ?" "Ｍｒ. Ｃｕｓｈｍａｎ..." "Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｒｕｓｈ ｄｏｃｔｏｒ? Ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｋｉｌｌ ｈｉｍ ａｎｙ ｄａｙ, ｉｔ ｔｈｅ ｒｅｓｕｒｒｅｃｔｉｎｇ ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ａ ｂｉｔｃｈ." "Ｎｏ ｏｎｅ'ｓ ｔａｌｋｉｎｇ ａｂｏｕｔ ｋｉｌｌｉｎｇ ａｎｙｏｎｅ." "Ｗｈａｔ ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｃａｌｌ ｉｔ ｔｈｅｎ? Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ａｃｃｅｐｔａｂｌｅ ｍｅｄｉｃａｌ ｔｅｒｍ?" "Ｍｒ. Ｃｕｓｈｍａｎ, ａｒｅ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋｉｎｇ ａｂｏｕｔ ｈｉｍ ｏｒ ｙｏｕｒｓｅｌｆ?" "Ｍｅａｎｉｎｇ?" "Ｍｅａｎｉｎｇ ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｗｈａｔ ｈｅ ｗａｎｔｓ ｏｒ ａｒｅ ｙｏｕ ａｆｒａｉｄ ｔｏ ｌｅｔ ｇｏ? Ｔｏ ｌｏｓｅ ｙｏｕｒ ｓｏｎ?" "Ｏｆ ｃｏｕｒｓｅ Ｉ'ｍ ａｆｒａｉｄ ｔｏ ｌｅｔ ｇｏ. Ｏｆ ｃｏｕｒｓｅ Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｌｏｓｅ ｍｙ ｓｏｎ. Ｗｈａｔ ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ Ｉ ａｍ? Ｈｏｗ ａｂｏｕｔ ｙｏｕ? Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｂｉｇ ｆｕｃｋｉｎｇ ｒｕｓｈ? Ｙｏｕ ｎｅｅｄ ｔｏ ｆｒｅｅ ｕｐ ａ ｂｅｄ? Ｔｈｅ ｉｎｓｕｒａｎｃｅ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｒｕｎ ｏｕｔ?" Ｄｒ. Ｎｅｗｔｏｎ ｔｕｒｎｅｄ ａｗａｙ ｆｒｏｍ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｔｈｅｎ ｓａｙｉｎｇ, "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｌｉｓｔｅｎ ｔｏ ｔｈｉｓ." "Ｎｏ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ'ｔ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｌｅａｖｅ. Ｉ'ｍ ｔｈｅ ｏｎｅ ｗｈｏ ｈａｓ ｔｏ ｓｔａｙ ｈｅｒｅ." Ｔｈｅ ｗｏｍａｎ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｂｌｕｅ ｓｕｉｔ ｗｉｔｈ ａ ｇｒａｙ ａｎｄ ｐｉｎｋ ｔｉｅ ｌｅａｎｅｄ ａｃｒｏｓｓ ｔｈｅ ｌｉｂｒａｒｙ ｔａｂｌｅ ｓｈｅ ｕｓｅｄ ａｓ ａ ｄｅｓｋ ａｎｄ ｓａｉｄ ｔｏ Ｄｕａｎｅ, "Ａｔｌａｎｔｉｓ ｉｓ ａ ｍｙｔｈ. Ｍｕ. Ｎｏｗ Ｍｕ ｉｓ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ ｅｌｓｅ ａｇａｉｎ." "Ｍｕ?" "Ａｎ ｅｍｐｉｒｅ. Ｉｔ ｓｐｒｅａｄ ａｃｒｏｓｓ ｔｈｅ Ｐａｃｉｆｉｃ ｆｒｏｍ Ｓｏｕｔｈｅａｓｔ Ａｓｉａ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｉｓｌａｎｄｓ." "Ｉ ｓｅｅ." "Ｔｈｅ ｓｔｏｎｅ ｗｏｒｋｓ ａｔ Ｐｏｎａｐｅ ｗｅｒｅ ｂｕｉｌｔ ｂｙ ｔｈｅ Ｍｕｒｉａｎｓ." "Ｒｅａｌｌｙ." "Ｓｏ ｗａｓ Ａｎｋｏｒ Ｗａｔ. Ｈａｖｅ ｙｏｕ ｈｅａｒｄ ｏｆ Ａｎｋｏｒ Ｗａｔ?" "Ｙｅｓ." "Ｔｈｅｎ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｍｕｌａｇａ ｉｓ ｆｒｏｍ Ｍｕ. Ｓｈｅ ｗａｓ ａ ｗａｒｒｉｏｒ ｐｒｉｎｃｅｓｓ." "Ｓｈｅ'ｓ ｙｏｕｒ ｓｐｉｒｉｔ ｈｅｌｐｅｒ?" "Ｙｏｕ ｄｏ ｋｎｏｗ." "Ｉ'ｖｅ ｒｅａｄ ａ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ, ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ａｌｌ." "Ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｃａｒｅｆｕｌ ｗｈａｔ ｙｏｕ ｒｅａｄ." "Ｗｈｙ ｉｓ ｔｈａｔ?" "Ｍｉｓｉｎｆｏｒｍａｔｉｏｎ." "Ｏｈ ｙｅｓ." "Ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ ｗｉｓｈ ｔｏ ｓｐｅａｋ ｗｉｔｈ ｗｈｏｍ?" "Ｈｉｓ ｎａｍｅ?" "Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ." "Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ. Ｈｏｗ ｏｌｄ ｗａｓ ｈｅ ｗｈｅｎ ｈｅ ｐａｓｓｅｄ?" "Ｈｅ ｈａｓｎ'ｔ." "Ｈｅ ｈａｓｎ'ｔ ｐａｓｓｅｄ." "Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｂｅｅｎ ａ ｍｉｓｔａｋｅ. Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｌｏｏｋ ｆｏｒ ｌｏｓｔ ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ. Ｉ ｃｏｍｍｕｎｉｃａｔｅ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｅ ｄｅａｄ." "Ｈｅ'ｓ ｎｏｔ ｌｏｓｔ. Ｈｅ'ｓ ｉｎ ａ ｃｏｍａ. Ｈｅ ｗａｓ ｎｅａｒｌｙ ｆｉｖｅ ｗｈｅｎ ｔｈａｔ ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ." "Ｂｕｔ ｈｅ'ｓ ｓｔｉｌｌ ａｌｉｖｅ?" "Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｓｏ. Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｗｈａｔ ｔｈｅ ｄｏｃｔｏｒｓ ｓａｙ." "Ｉ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｈｅｌｐ ｙｏｕ." "Ｃａｎ'ｔ ｙｏｕ ｔｒｙ?" "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ, ｎｏ. Ｉ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｈｅｌｐ ｙｏｕ." Ｔｈａｔ ｄａｙ ａｓ ｈｅ ｗｅｎｔ ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｂｒｅａｋ ｒｏｏｍ ｔｏ ｐｕｔ ｈｉｓ ｌｕｎｃｈ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｆｒｉｄｇｅ Ｌｏｒｒａｉｎｅ, ｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｃａｓｈｉｅｒｓ ａｎｄ ａ ｓｗｅｅｔ ｌａｄｙ ａｓ ｂｉｇ ａｓ ａ ｈｏｕｓｅ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｇｏｏｄ ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ Ｄｕａｎｅ." Ｈｅ ｎｏｄｄｅｄ ｔｏ ｈｅｒ, ｓｍｉｌｅｄ ａｎｄ ｓｈｅ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｄｕａｎｅ, ｓａｙ 'ｇｏｏｄ ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ Ｌｏｒｒａｉｎｅ'." "Ｇｏｏｄ ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ Ｌｏｒｒａｉｎｅ," ｈｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｈｏｗ ａｒｅ ｙｏｕ ｔｏｄａｙ?" Ｈｅ ｓｈｒｕｇｇｅｄ ａｎｄ ｓｈｅ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｓａｙ 'ｊｕｓｔ ｆｉｎｅ' Ｄｕａｎｅ." Ｔｈｅｙ ｗａｌｋｅｄ ｔｏｇｅｔｈｅｒ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ｔｈｅ ｓｈｅｌｖｅｓ ｌｏａｄｅｄ ｗｉｔｈ ｎｏｎ-ｐｅｒｉｓｈａｂｌｅｓ ｏｕｔ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｓｔｏｒｅ ｐｒｏｐｅｒ ａｎｄ ｈｅ ｓａｗ ｔｈｅ ｌｉｎｅ ｂｅｇｉｎｎｉｎｇ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｏｋｉｅｓ ａｎｄ ｂｒｅａｄ ａｉｓｌｅ ａｎｄ ｂｅｎｄｉｎｇ ｂａｃｋ ｔｏｗａｒｄ ｄａｉｒｙ; ａ ｌｉｎｅ ｏｆ ｄａｒｋ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ, ｔｈｅ ｍｅｎ ｂａｒｅ-ｈｅａｄｅｄ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｗｏｍｅｎ ｓｃａｒｖｅｄ, ｍｏｓｔ ｗｉｔｈ ｅｉｔｈｅｒ ｒｏｓａｒｉｅｓ ｏｒ ｃｌｕｔｃｈｅｄ Ｂｉｂｌｅｓ; ａ ｑｕｉｅｔ, ｍｕｍｂｌｉｎｇ ｌｉｎｅ ａｎｄ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｓｋｅｄ, "Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｉｓ." "Ｔｈｅｙ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈｅｙ ｓｅｅ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ." "Ｗｈｏ'ｓ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ?" "Ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｔｈｅ ｖｉｒｇｉｎ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ, ｔｈｅ Ｃａｔｈｏｌｉｃ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ. Ｍａｒｙ." "Ｏｈ. Ｓｅｅ ｈｅｒ ｗｈｅｒｅ? "Ｉ'ｍ ｎｏｔ ｓｕｒｅ. Ｈａｖｅｎ'ｔ ｇｏｎｅ ｔｏ ｌｏｏｋ. Ｏｎｅ ｇｕｙ ｓａｉｄ ｉｔ'ｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｎｄｅｎｓａｔｉｏｎ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｅｒ ｃａｓｅ. Ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ ｓａｉｄ ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｉｃｅ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｉｃｅ ｃｒｅａｍ ｆｒｅｅｚｅｒ. Ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ...ｉｔ ｂｒｅａｋｓ ｍｙ ｈｅａｒｔ." Ｗｈｅｎ ｓｈｅ ｓａｉｄ ｔｈａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ａｔ ｈｅｒ, ｓａｗ ｓｈｅ ｗａｓ ｂｅｉｎｇ ｓｅｒｉｏｕｓ. "Ｂｒｅａｋｓ ｙｏｕｒ ｈｅａｒｔ?" "Ｙｅａｈ. Ｔｈｅｓｅ ｗｅｔｂａｃｋｓ, ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｔｏｏ ｎｅｗ. Ｔｈｅｙ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｙｅｔ." "Ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈａｔ?" Ｌｏｒｒａｉｎｅ ｐｕｌｌｅｄ ａ ｓｍａｌｌ ｗａｄ ｏｆ ｃｒｕｍｐｌｅｄ ｂｉｌｌｓ ｆｒｏｍ ｈｅｒ ｐｏｃｋｅｔ, ｗａｖｅｄ ｔｈｅｍ ａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ. "Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｔｈｅ ｇｏｄ ｏｆ Ａｍｅｒｉｃａ." "Ｔｒｅｎｔ ｈｅａｒｄ ａｂｏｕｔ ｉｔ?" "Ｙｅａｈ. Ｃｏｌｉｎ ｓａｉｄ ｈｅ ｃａｌｌｅｄ ｔｈｅ ｐｏｌｉｃｅ." "Ｉｓｎ'ｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ ａ ｎｅｗ ｍａｎ ｉｎ ｍｅａｔ? Ｍｅｘｉｃａｎ ｏｒ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ...ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｈｉｓ ｎａｍｅ?" "Ｌｅｏｎ," Ｌｏｒｒａｉｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｙｅａｈ, Ｌｅｏｎ. Ｉｓ ｈｅ Ｍｅｘｉｃａｎ Ｍｅｘｉｃａｎ? Ｉ ｍｅａｎ, ｃａｎ ｈｅ ｓｐｅａｋ Ｓｐａｎｉｓｈ?" "Ｙｅａｈ, ｈｅ ｈａｓｎ'ｔ ｂｅｅｎ ｈｅｒｅ ｌｏｎｇ." "Ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ ｉｆ ｈｅ'ｓ ｉｎ ｙｅｔ?" Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. Ｌｅｏｎ ｗａｓ ａ ｓｍａｌｌ ｍａｎ, ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｓａｍｅ ｓｉｚｅ ａｓ Ｄｕａｎｅ; ｓｈｏｒｔ ａｎｄ ｓｌｉｇｈｔｌｙ ｂｕｉｌｔ ｗｉｔｈ ｇｒａｙｉｎｇ ｄａｒｋ ｈａｉｒ ｉｎ ｔｉｇｈｔ ｃｕｒｌｓ ｗｈｏ ｍａｎａｇｅｄ ｔｏ ｐｒｏｊｅｃｔ ｄｅｔｅｒｍｉｎａｔｉｏｎ ａｎｄ ｃｏｍｐｅｔｅｎｃｙ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ａｎ ｏｖｅｒａｌｌ ｎｅｒｖｏｕｓ ａｎｘｉｅｔｙ. "Ｉ ｗａｎｔ ｙｏｕ ｔｏ ｐｒｏｐ ｏｐｅｎ ｔｈｅ ｎｏｒｔｈ ｄｏｏｒ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｔｈｅ ｎｏｒｔｈ ｄｏｏｒ?" "Ｙｅａｈ, ｔｈｅ ｎｏｒｔｈ ｄｏｏｒ. Ｉｔ ｈａｓ ｔｈｅ ｌｅａｓｔ ｔｒａｆｆｉｃ. Ｗｏｕｌｄ ｙｏｕ ｄｏ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ ｍｅ? Ｇｅｔ ｓｏｍｅ ｃａｒｄｂｏａｒｄ ａｎｄ ｍａｋｅ ｓｉｇｎｓ, ｉｎ Ｓｐａｎｉｓｈ? Ｔｅｌｌｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｍ ｔｏ ｃｏｍｅ ｉｎ ｔｈａｔ ｗａｙ? Ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ, 'ｔｈｉｓ ｗａｙ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ' ｏｒ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ?" "Ｙｅｓ," Ｌｅｏｎ ｓａｉｄ. "Ａｎｄ ｄｉｒｅｃｔ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ, ｔｈｅ ｌｉｎｅ ｏｆ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ, ｔｏ ｃｏｍｅ ａｒｏｕｎｄ ｔｈａｔ ｗａｙ?" "Ｙｅｓ," Ｌｅｏｎ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｔｈａｎｋ ｙｏｕ Ｌｅｏｎ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｏｆ ｃｏｕｒｓｅ," Ｌｅｏｎ ｓａｉｄ. Ｔｈａｔ ｄａｙ ａｓ ｔｈｅ ｄａｒｋ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｓｈｕｆｆｌｅｄ ｏｕｔ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｎ ｂａｃｋ ｉｎ ａｇａｉｎ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ｔｈｅ ｎｏｒｔｈ ｄｏｏｒ ｆｒｅｅｉｎｇ ｕｐ ｔｈｅ ｂｒｅａｄ ａｉｓｌｅ ｆｏｒ ｐａｙｉｎｇ ｃｕｓｔｏｍｅｒｓ ａｎｄ ｆｉｌｉｎｇ ｄｏｗｎ ｔｈｅ ｗｉｄｅ ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ ａｉｓｌｅ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗａｓ ｒｏｏｍ ｆｏｒ ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ; ａｓ ｔｈｉｓ ｗａｓ ｔａｋｉｎｇ ｓｈａｐｅ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｍｕｍｂｌｉｎｇ ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｄａｉｒｙ ｓｅｃｔｉｏｎ Ｃｏｌｉｎ ａｎｄ Ｌｏｒｒａｉｎｅ ｂｏｔｈ ｃａｍｅ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ Ｌｏｒｒａｉｎｅ. Ｃｏｌｉｎ ｇｏｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｆｉｒｓｔ ａｎｄ ｈａｐｐｉｌｙ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｔｒｅｎｔ ｗａｎｔｓ ｔｏ ｓｅｅ ｙｏｕ." Ｌｏｒｒａｉｎｅ, ｔｈｒｅｅ ｏｒ ｆｏｕｒ ｓｔｅｐｓ ｂｅｈｉｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｂｅａｍｉｎｇ Ｃｏｌｉｎ, ｓｍｉｌｅｄ ａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｓ ｈｅ ｐａｓｓｅｄ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｎ ｓａｄｌｙ ｗａｔｃｈｅｄ ｈｉｍ ｗａｌｋ ｂａｃｋ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ｔｈｅ ｄｏｕｂｌｅ ｄｏｏｒ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｅ ｅｍｐｌｏｙｅｅｓ ｏｎｌｙ ｓｉｇｎ. Ｔｈｅ ｍａｎａｇｅｒ'ｓ ｏｆｆｉｃｅ ｗａｓ ｉｎ ａ ｍｅｚｚａｎｉｎｅ ｐｅｒｃｈｅｄ ｈｉｇｈ ｓｏ ｔｈａｔ ｔｈｅ ｗｈｏｌｅ ｓｔｏｒｅ ｆｌｏｏｒ ｗａｓ ｉｎ ｖｉｅｗ ａｎｄ ｕｐ ｔｈｅｒｅ Ｔｒｅｎｔ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｗｈａｔ ｔｈｅ ｈｅｌｌ ａｒｅ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｉｎｇ?" Ｉ'ｖｅ ｇｏｔ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｐｓ ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｒｏｕｓｔ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｓｐｉｃｓ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ａｃｃｏｍｍｏｄａｔｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｍ." "Ｉ ｗａｓ ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｓｔｏｒｅ ｉｎ ｏｒｄｅｒ, ｓｏ ｔｈｅｙ ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ ｂｅ ａ ｈｉｎｄｒａｎｃｅ ｔｏ ｏｕｒ ｓｈｏｐｐｅｒｓ." "Ｌｉｓｔｅｎ ｐａｄｒｅ Ｄｕａｎｅ, Ｉ'ｖｅ ｃａｌｌｅｄ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｐｓ. Ｔｈｉｓ ｂｕｌｌｓｈｉｔ'ｓ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｓｔｏｐ ｒｅａｌ ｑｕｉｃｋ. Ｓｈｉｔ." "Ｉ ｍａｄｅ ａ ｃａｌｌ ｔｏｏ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｓｏ?" "Ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｎｅｗｓｐａｐｅｒ. Ｔｈｅｙ ｓｅｎｄｉｎｇ ａ ｇｕｙ ｏｖｅｒ ｔｏ ｄｏ ａ ｆｅａｔｕｒｅ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｒｅｌｉｇｉｏｕｓ ｐｈｅｎｏｍｅｎｏｎ." "Ｙｏｕ ｃａｌｌｅｄ ｔｈｅ ｐａｐｅｒ?" "Ｔｈｅ ＴＶ ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ ｔｏｏ. Ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｓｅｎｄｉｎｇ ａ ｆｉｌｍ ｃｒｅｗ." "Ｗｈａｔ?" "Ｓｏ ｍａｙｂｅ ｙｏｕ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ｃｏｎｓｉｄｅｒ, ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｔａｋｅ ｙｏｕｒ ｈｅａｄ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｙｏｕｒ ａｓｓ ｆｏｒ ｊｕｓｔ ａ ｍｉｎｕｔｅ ａｎｄ ｇｏ ｄｏｗｎ, ｇｒｉｎ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｃａｍｅｒａ ａｎｄ ｇｅｔ ｆｒｅｅ ｐｕｂｌｉｃｉｔｙ ｓｈｏｗｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｓｔｏｒｅ ｔｏ ｂｅ ａ ｓｙｍｐａｔｈｅｔｉｃ ｍｅｍｂｅｒ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｍｍｕｎｉｔｙ ｏｒ ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｌｅｔ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｐｓ ｂｒｅａｋ ｉｔ ｕｐ ａｎｄ ｓｈｏｗ ｙｏｕｒ ｔｒｕｅ, ｄｉｐｓｈｉｔ ｓｅｌｆ?" "Ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｇｅｔ ａｗａｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｉｓ?" "Ｗｉｔｈ ｗｈａｔ?" "Ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｆｕｃｋ ｗｉｔｈ ｍｅ ａｎｄ ｇｅｔ ａｗａｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｉｔ? Ｙｏｕ'ｄ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｓｔａｒｔ ｔｈｉｎｋｉｎｇ ａｂｏｕｔ ｌｉｆｅ ａｆｔｅｒ Ｒａｌｐｈ'ｓ." "Ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｆｉｎｄ ｓｏｍｅｂｏｄｙ ｅｌｓｅ ｗｈｏ'ｌｌ ｄｏ ｔｈｉｓ ｊｏｂ ａｓ ｌｏｎｇ ａｓ Ｉ ｈａｖｅ, ａｓ ｗｅｌｌ ａｓ Ｉ ｈａｖｅ? Ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ ｗｈｏ ｃａｒｅｓ ａｓ ｍｕｃｈ ａｓ Ｉ ｄｏ, ｊｕｓｔ ｈｉｒｅ ｔｈｅｍ. Ａｌｌ ｒｉｇｈｔ. Ｉ'ｍ ｓｉｃｋ ｏｆ ｙｏｕｒ ｓｈｉｔ." "Ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｔａｌｋ ｔｏ ｍｅ..." "Ｆｕｃｋ ｙｏｕ. Ｉ'ｖｅ ｂｅｅｎ ｆｉｇｈｔｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｂｏｏｚｅ ｆｏｒ ｓｅｖｅｎ ｙｅａｒｓ ｎｏｗ, ｗｉｎｎｉｎｇ ｍｏｓｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｔｉｍｅ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｓｌｉｐｓ, ｂｕｔ Ｉ'ｖｅ ａｌｗａｙｓ ｂｅａｔ ｉｔ ｂａｃｋ ａｇａｉｎ. Ｓｅｖｅｎ ｙｅａｒｓ ｔａｋｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｌｉｃｋｓ ｅｖｅｒｙ ｄａｍｎｅｄ ｄａｙ. Ｔｈａｔ ｍｅａｎｓ Ｉ'ｍ ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ ｔｈｅ ｔｏｕｇｈｅｓｔ ｄａｍｎｅｄ ｓｏｎ ｏｆ ａ ｂｉｔｃｈ ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ ｅｖｅｒ ｍｅｔ. Ｙｏｕ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｔｒｙ ｍｅ ｏｎ, ｇｏ ｒｉｇｈｔ ａｈｅａｄ ａｎｄ ｗｅ'ｌｌ ｓｅｅ ｗｈｏ ｗａｌｋｓ ｏｎ ｗｈｏｓｅ ｇｕｔｓ." "Ｄｕａｎｅ..." "Ｍａｙｂｅ Ｉ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ｒｅｅｖａｌｕａｔｅ ｍｙ ｏｐｔｉｏｎｓ ａｓ ｗｅｌｌ. Ｍａｙｂｅ Ｉ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ｊｕｓｔ ｒｅｅｖａｌｕａｔｅ ｆｉｎｄｉｎｇ ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ ｊｏｂ. Ａｎｄ ｍａｙｂｅ, ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ｙｏｕ ｃｏｍｅ ａｆｔｅｒ ｍｅ ａｇａｉｎ, ｙｏｕ'ｄ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｌｏｏｋ ｄｏｗｎ ｙｏｕｒ ｐａｎｔｓ ａｎｄ ｒｅｅｖａｌｕａｔｅ ｊｕｓｔ ｈｏｗ ｂｉｇ ｙｏｕｒ ｄｉｃｋ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｉｓ." "Ｄｕａｎｅ..." Ｈｅ ｓｌｅｐｔ ｗａｌｋｅｄ, ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ, ｗａｋｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｆｉｎｄ ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｍｉｄｄｌｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ, ｏｎ ａ ｎｉｇｈｔ ｃａｌｌ, ｔｈｅ ｖｏｉｃｅ ｃａｌｌｉｎｇ 'ｄａｄｄｙ, ｄａｄｄｙ,' ｓｔｉｌｌ ｅｃｈｏｉｎｇ ｉｎ ｈｉｓ ｈｅａｄ. Ｏｎｃｅ ｈｅ ｗｏｋｅ ｕｐ ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ ｉｎ ｆｒｏｎｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｏｐｅｎ ｒｅｆｒｉｇｅｒａｔｏｒ, ｒｅａｃｈｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ ｂａｂｙ ｂｏｔｔｌｅｓ ａ ｄｅｃａｄｅ ｇｏｎｅ. Ｔｈａｔ ｄａｙ ｏｎ ｈｉｓ ｌｕｎｃｈ ｂｒｅａｋ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｄｒｏｖｅ ｄｏｗｎ ａ ｓｔｒｅｅｔ ｏｆ ｓｍａｌｌ, ｒｅｎｔｅｄ ｈｏｕｓｅｓ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｐａｒｋｅｄ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｃａｒｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｙａｒｄｓ, ｙａｒｄｓ ｗｏｒｎ ｔｏ ｓａｎｄｙ ｓｏｉｌ, ｔｈｅ ｓｕｒｖｉｖｉｎｇ ｇｒａｓｓ ｒｅｄｕｃｅｄ ｔｏ ｓｈｏｒｔ, ｂｒｏｗｎｉｎｇ ｐａｔｃｈｅｓ. Ｓｏｕｔｈ 32ｎｄ Ａｖｅｎｕｅ ｗａｓ ａ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｒｏａｄ ｏｆｆ ｏｆ Ｈａｒｒｙ Ｓｔｒｅｅｔ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｔｈｅ ｃｉｔｙ'ｓ ａｕｔｈｏｒｉｔｙ ａｎｄ ａｍｂｉｔｉｏｎ ｂｅｇａｎ ｔｏ ｗｅａｒ ｔｈｉｎ. Ｓｏｍｅ ｓｔｒｅｅｔｓ ｗｅｒｅ ｐａｖｅｄ, ｓｏｍｅ ｗｅｒｅｎ'ｔ ａｎｄ ｓｏｍｅ ｐａｒｔｌｙ. Ｄｕａｎｅ ｄｒｏｖｅ ｓｌｏｗｌｙ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ ｈｏｕｓｅ ｎｕｍｂｅｒｓ ｕｎｔｉｌ ｈｅ ｃａｍｅ ｔｏ 1413 ａｎｄ ｓａｗ Ｒａｎｄｙ ｂｅｎｔ ｏｖｅｒ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｉｎ ｕｎｄｅｒ ａ ｃａｒ'ｓ ｒａｉｓｅｄ ｈｏｏｄ. Ｄｕａｎｅ ｐｕｌｌｅｄ ｉｎ ｂｅｈｉｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｃａｒ ａｎｄ Ｒａｎｄｙ ｗａｌｋｅｄ ｔｏ ｈｉｍ. "Ｒａｎｄｙ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ｈｅ ｏｐｅｎ ｗｉｎｄｏｗ. "Ｈｏｗ ａｒｅ ｙｏｕ Ｄｕａｎｅ?" "Ｉ'ｍ ｏｋａｙ. Ｈｏｗ ａｂｏｕｔ ｙｏｕ? Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｕｐ ｗｉｔｈ ｙｏｕ?" "Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ. Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ'ｓ ｕｐ." "Ｉ'ｖｅ ｇｏｔ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｗｎ ａｓ ｓｉｃｋ. Ｎｏｂｏｄｙ ｋｎｏｗｓ ａｎｙ ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ." "Ｙｏｕ ｄｏ?" "Ｙｅｓ, Ｉ ｄｏ. Ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｃｏｍｅ ｂａｃｋ. Ｊｕｓｔ ｌｉｋｅ ａｎｙｂｏｄｙ. Ｃｏｍｅ ｂａｃｋ ａｎｄ ｇｏ ｔｏ ｗｏｒｋ." "Ｎｏ. Ｉ'ｍ ｎｏｔ ｊｕｓｔ ｌｉｋｅ ａｎｙｂｏｄｙ." "Ｗｈｙ ｎｏｔ?" "Ｉｔ ｗａｓｎ'ｔ ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ." "Ｗｈａｔ ｗａｓｎ'ｔ ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ. Ｔｅｌｌ ｍｅ. Ｍａｙｂｅ ｗｅ ｃａｎ ｆｉｘ ｉｔ, ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ..." "Ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｆｉｘ ｉｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ. Ｉｔ'ｓ ｎｏｔ ａ ｔｈｉｎｇ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｊｕｓｔ....ｆｉｘ." "Ｗｈａｔ ｃａｎ Ｉ ｄｏ ｆｏｒ ｙｏｕ?" "Ｗｈａｔ?" "Ｔｅｌｌ ｍｅ ｗｈａｔ ｔｏ ｄｏ." "Ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｄｏ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ." "Ｔｅｌｌ ｍｅ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｃａｎ ｄｏ." "Ｄｏ ｗｈａｔ ｍａｎ? Ｄｏ ｗｈａｔ?" "Ｗｈａｔ ｃａｎ Ｉ ｄｏ ｔｏ ｈｅｌｐ ｙｏｕ?" "Ｗｈｏ ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｙｏｕ ａｒｅ? Ｗｈａｔ ｍａｋｅｓ ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｃｈａｎｇｅ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ? Ｄｏ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ ａｂｏｕｔ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ? Ｊｅｓｕｓ Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ, ｊｕｓｔ ｌｅａｖｅ ｍｅ ａｌｏｎｅ." "Ｔｈｅ ｐａｒｏｌｅ ｏｆｆｉｃｅ'ｌｌ ｂｅ ｃａｌｌｉｎｇ." "Ｉ ｋｎｏｗ." "Ｗｈａｔ ｄｏ Ｉ ｔｅｌｌ ｔｈｅｍ?" "Ｆｏｒ Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ'ｓ ｓａｋｅ, Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｇｉｖｅ ａ ｓｈｉｔ ｗｈａｔ ｙｏｕ ｔｅｌｌ ｈｉｍ. Ｔｅｌｌ ｈｉｍ ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ ｙｏｕ ｗａｎｔ." "Ａｌｌ ｒｉｇｈｔ." "Ｔｅｌｌ ｈｉｍ ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｔｈ Ｄｕａｎｅ, ｊｕｓｔ ｔｅｌｌ ｈｉｍ ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｔｈ." "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈａｔ ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｔｈ ｉｓ Ｒａｎｄｙ." "Ｄｕａｎｅ, ｆｕｃｋ. Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ａ ｎｉｃｅ ｇｕｙ, ｂｕｔ ｉｔ'ｓ ｎｏｔ ｕｐ ｔｏ ｙｏｕ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｄｏ. Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ ｙｏｕ ｊｕｓｔ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｌｅｔ ｉｔ ｐｌａｙ ｏｕｔ." "Ｗｈａｔ ａｒｅ ｙｏｕ ｐｌａｙｉｎｇ ｏｕｔ?" "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｙｅｔ. Ｉ'ｌｌ ｆｉｎｄ ｏｕｔ Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ. Ｗｅ ａｌｌ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｆｉｎｄ ｏｕｒ ｏｗｎ ｅｎｄ Ｄｕａｎｅ. Ｌｉｋｅ ｉｔ ｏｒ ｎｏｔ. Ｇｏ ｂａｃｋ ｔｏ ｗｏｒｋ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｇｅｔ ｙｏｕｒｓｅｌｆ ｉｎ ｔｒｏｕｂｌｅ ｏｎ ｍｙ ａｃｃｏｕｎｔ." Ｔｈａｔ ｄａｙ ｔｈｅ ｆｉｒｓｔ ｂｅｅｒ ａｆｔｅｒ ａｌｌ ｔｈｏｓｅ ｙｅａｒｓ ｌｅｄ ｔｏ ｓｅｖｅｎ ｍｏｒｅ, ａｓ ｈｅ ｋｎｅｗ ｉｔ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｍｅｎｔ ｈｅ ｗａｌｋｅｄ ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｃｌｕｂ. Ａｔ ｈｏｍｅ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｂａｒ, ｈｉｓ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ａｓｓｅｍｂｌａｇｅ ｏｆ ｐｒｏｐｓ ｓｅｔ ｏｕｔ; ｇｌａｓｓ ａｎｄ ａｓｈ ｔｒａｙ, ｔｈｅ ｐａｃｋ ｏｆ Ｌｕｃｋｉｅｓ ｃｌｏｓｅ ｔｏ ｈａｎｄ, ｔｈｅ Ｚｉｐｐｏ ａｔｏｐ ｉｔ; ｔｈｅ ｒｅｓｉｇｎｅｄ ｍａｎ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｂａｃｋ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅ ｍｉｒｒｏｒ. Ｄｒｉｎｋｉｎｇ ｈｅ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｓｅｅ ｔｈｉｎｇｓ, ｎｏｔ ｆａｎｔａｓｔｉｃ ｔｈｉｎｇｓ ｏｒ ｔｈｅ ｆｕｔｕｒｅ, ｂｕｔ ｇｈｏｓｔｓ, ｒｅｓｕｒｒｅｃｔｅｄ ｓｈａｄｅｓ ｏｆ ｐａｓｔ ｔｉｍｅｓ ａｎｄ ｌｉｖｅｓ ａｎｄ ｉｆ ｈｅ ｄｒａｎｋ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ ｈｅ ｃｏｕｌｄ, ｊｕｓｔ ｆｏｒ ａ ｂｉｔ, ｐｕｔ ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ ｂａｃｋ ｔｈｅｒｅ, ｉｎ ｔｈｏｓｅ ｇｏｎｅ ｄａｙｓ ａｎｄ ｆｅｅｌ ｔｈｅｍ ａｇａｉｎ, ｂｒｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｏｌｄ ｄｅａｄ ｊｏｙｓ ｔｏ ｌｉｆｅ ｏｎｃｅ ｍｏｒｅ ａｎｄ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ, ｊｕｓｔ ｆｏｒ ａ ｂｉｔ, ｔｈａｔ ｓｕｃｈ ｔｈｉｎｇｓ ｗｅｒｅ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ. Ｔｈｅ ｐｉｃｋ-ｙｏｕｒ-ｏｗｎ ｓｔｒａｗｂｅｒｒｙ ｆｉｅｌｄ ｗａｓ, ｌｉｋｅ ｍｏｓｔ ｔｈｉｎｇｓ, ｔｈｅ ｓｕｍ ｏｆ ｉｔｓ ｐａｓｔ. Ｐｌｏｗ-ｒｉｐｐｅｄ ａｎｄ ｐｌａｎｔｅｄ, ｉｔ ｈａｄ ｂｅｅｎ ｐａｃｋｅｄ ｄｏｗｎ ａｇａｉｎ ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｒａｉｎ, ｓｅａｒｅｄ ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｓｕｎ ａｎｄ, ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｄａｙ ｔｈｅ ｆｒｕｉｔ ｗａｓ ｒｅａｄｙ, ｌａｙ ｓｃａｒｒｅｄ ａｎｄ ｇｒａｎｕｌａｔｅｄ, ｓｍｅｌｌｉｎｇ ｌｉｋｅ ｓｉｅｖｅｄ ｓｔｏｎｅ ａｎｄ ｅａｓｉｌｙ ｓｔｉｒｒｅｄ ｂｙ ａｎｙ ｂｒｅｅｚｅ ｔｏ ｃａｔｃｈ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｔｈｒｏａｔ ａｎｄ ｃｈｏｋｅ ｙｏｕ. Ｔｈｅ ｂｏｙ, ｓｎｅｅｚｉｎｇ, ｒａｎ ｄｏｗｎ ｔｈｅ ｒｏｗｓ, ｈｉｓ ｃａｌｌｉｎｇ ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ ｌａｇｇｉｎｇ, ｔｈｅ ｂｏｙ ｗｒｅｎｃｈｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｒｒｉｅｓ ｌｏｏｓｅ ａｎｄ ｅａｔｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｍ ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｂｅ ｓａｃｋｅｄ, ｗｅｉｇｈｅｄ, ｐａｉｄ ｆｏｒ. Ｇａｌｌｏｐｉｎｇ, ｈｅ ｇｒｉｎｎｅｄ, ｈｉｓ ｃｏｌｌａｒ ｓｏａｋｅｄ ｗｉｔｈ ｊｕｉｃｅ. Ｈｉｓ ｆａｔｈｅｒ ａｎｄ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ, ｌａｕｇｈｉｎｇ, ｃａｌｌｅｄ "Ｒｉｃｋｉｅ, Ｒｉｃｋｉｅ!" "Ｈｅｙ, ｗｈａｔ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｉｎｇ?" Ｔｈｅ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｒ, Ｄｕａｎｅ ｈａｄ ｔｏ ｔｈｉｎｋ ａ ｍｉｎｕｔｅ ｔｏ ｂｒｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｎａｍｅ ｔｏ ｍｉｎｄ - Ｅｕｇｅｎｅ, Ｅｕｇｅｎｅ Ｍａｒｔｉｎ. Ｈｅ'ｄ ｔｏｕｃｈｅｄ Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ'ｓ ｈｅａｄ ａｎｄ ｆｏｕｎｄ ｄｒｅａｍｓ. "Ｉ'ｍ ｈａｖｉｎｇ ａ ｒｅｌａｐｓｅ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｃａｎ Ｉ ｓｉｔ?" "Ｓｕｒｅ." Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｓａｔ ｈｉｓ ｏｗｎ ｇｌａｓｓ ｄｏｗｎ ｂｅｓｉｄｅ Ｄｕａｎｅ'ｓ, ｐｕｌｌｅｄ ｔｈｅ ｓｔｏｏｌ ｏｕｔ ａｎｄ ｓｌｉｐｐｅｄ ｓｉｄｅｗａｙｓ ｏｎｔｏ ｉｔ, ｓｍｉｌｉｎｇ ａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｎｄ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ａｃｒｏｓｓ ｔｈｅ ｒｏｏｍ. Ｔｈｅｎ ｈｅ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ｂａｃｋ ｔｏ Ｄｕａｎｅ. "Ｗｅｌｌ, ｉｓ ｔｈｉｓ ａ ｓｌｉｐ ｏｒ ａ ｆｕｌｌ ｂｌｏｗｎ ｒｅｌａｐｓｅ?" "Ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｙｅｔ. Ｙｏｕ ｓｏｕｎｄ ｌｉｋｅ ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ ｂｅｅｎ ｔｏ ａ ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ ｏｒ ｔｗｏ." "Ｏｈ ｙｅｓ, ｓｈｏｐｐｉｎｇ. Ｄａｍａｇｅｄ ｇｏｏｄｓ. Ｉ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｒｅｓｉｓｔ." Ｈｉｓ ｇａｚｅ ｊｕｍｐｅｄ ｏｖｅｒ Ｄｕａｎｅ'ｓ ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ, ｔｈｅｎ ｂａｃｋ ａｇａｉｎ. "Ｊｅｓｕｓ, ｃａｎ Ｉ ｐｉｃｋ ｔｈｅｍ. Ｈｏｗ'ｄ ｙｏｕ ｌｉｋｅ ｍｙ ｒｅａｄｉｎｇ?" "Ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｖｅｒｙ ｎｉｃｅ." "Ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｂｕｌｌｓｈｉｔ." "Ｂｕｌｌｓｈｉｔ?" "Ｙｅｓ. Ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｈｉｇｈｅｓｔ ｇｒａｄｅ. Ｉ ｗｏｒｋ ｈａｒｄ ｏｎ ｍｙ ｂｕｌｌｓｈｉｔ. Ｈｏｗ ｌｏｎｇ'ｓ ｙｏｕｒ ｓｏｎ ｂｅｅｎ ｔｈｉｓ ｗａｙ." "Ａｌｍｏｓｔ ｆｏｕｒｔｅｅｎ ｙｅａｒｓ." "Ｈｉｓ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ?" Ｄｕａｎｅ ｗａｖｅｄ ｖａｇｕｅｌｙ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｒｏｏｍ. "Ｇｏｎｅ, ｓｏｍｅｗｈｅｒｅ. Ｓｈｅ ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ｔａｋｅ ｉｔ ｗｅｌｌ." "Ｗａｓ ｉｔ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ ｓｈｅ ｄｉｄ?" "Ｎｏ. Ｓｈｅ ｔｈｉｎｋｓ ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｂｕｔ ｉｔ ｊｕｓｔ ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ." "Ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｈｅｒｅ?" "Ｙｅａｈ, Ｉ'ｍ ｈｅｒｅ. Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｄｏ. Ｉ'ｍ ｔｈｅ ｏｎｅ ｔｈａｔ ｓｔａｙｓ ｈｅｒｅ." "Ａ ｐｒｅｃｉｏｕｓ ｑｕａｌｉｔｙ, ｔｈａｔ." "Ｍａｙｂｅ ｊｕｓｔ ａ ｌａｃｋ ｏｆ ｉｍａｇｉｎａｔｉｏｎ." "Ｔｈｅ ｗｏｒｌｄ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｕｓｅ ｍｏｒｅ ｌｏｙａｌｔｙ ｌｉｋｅ ｙｏｕｒｓ." "Ｍａｙｂｅ. Ｍａｙｂｅ ｉｔ'ｓ ｊｕｓｔ ｉｎｅｒｔｉａ. Ｉ ｌｏｖｅ ｍｙ ｓｏｎ ａｎｄ ｈｅ'ｓ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｈｅｒｅ ｔｏ ｌｏｖｅ. Ｍａｙｂｅ Ｉ'ｍ ｊｕｓｔ ｎｏｔ ｓｔｒｏｎｇ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ ｙｅｔ. Ｆｏｒ ｔｈｅ ｇｒｉｅｖｉｎｇ." "Ｗｏｎ'ｔ ｌｅｔ ｇｏ?" "Ｙｅａｈ, ｗｅｌｌ. Ｙｏｕ ｍａｋｅ ｙｏｕｒ ｌｉｖｉｎｇ ｏｆｆ ｏｆ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｗｈｏ ｗｏｎ'ｔ ｌｅｔ ｇｏ." "Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｔｈ." "Ｉｔ ｅｖｅｒ ｂｏｔｈｅｒ ｙｏｕ? Ｉ ｍｅａｎ, ｉｓｎ'ｔ ｉｔ ｔａｋｉｎｇ ａｄｖａｎｔａｇｅ?" "Ｏｈ ｙｅｓ. Ｉｔ ｉｓ ｔａｋｉｎｇ ａｄｖａｎｔａｇｅ. Ｔａｋｉｎｇ ａｄｖａｎｔａｇｅ ｏｆ ｇｒｉｅｆ ａｎｄ ｍｏｕｒｎｉｎｇ ａｎｄ ｈｕｍａｎ ｓｕｆｆｅｒｉｎｇ, ｂｕｔ ｉｔ'ｓ ｔｒｅａｔｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｍ ａｓ ｗｅｌｌ. Ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ Ｉ'ｍ ｊｕｓｔ ｂｕｌｌｓｈｉｔ. Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｒｉｇｈｔ ｂｕｔ Ｉ'ｌｌ ｔｅｌｌ ｙｏｕ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ. Ｔｈｅｙ ｋｎｏｗ ｉｔ ｔｏｏ. Ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ Ｉ'ｍ ａ ｃｏｎ ｍａｎ, Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ. Ｉ'ｍ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｓｅｒｖｉｃｅ ｓｅｃｔｏｒ." "Ｔｈｅｓｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ, ｍｙ ｃｌｉｅｎｔｓ ｋｎｏｗ ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｂｕｌｌｓｈｉｔ. Ｔｈｅｙ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ａｄｍｉｔ ｉｔ ｔｏ ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ, ｂｕｔ ｔｈｅｙ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｗｈｉｓｔｌｉｎｇ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｄａｒｋ ｈｅｒｅ. Ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｔｉｏｎｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｆａｉｎｔ ｈｏｐｅ ｔｈａｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｍｉｇｈｔ, ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｙ, ｂｅ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｉｔ. Ｈｏｗ ｍａｎｙ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｉｎ ｃｈｕｒｃｈ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈａｔ ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｐｒａｙｅｒｓ ｗｉｌｌ ｂｅ ａｎｓｗｅｒｅｄ? Ｆｏｒ ｃｅｒｔａｉｎ ｓｕｒｅ? Ｊｕｓｔ ｔｈｅ ｃｒａｚｙ ｏｎｅｓ. Ｔｈｅ ｒｅｓｔ ａｒｅ ｍａｋｉｎｇ ｉｎｓｕｒａｎｃｅ ｐａｙｍｅｎｔｓ. Ｊｕｓｔ ｉｎ ｃａｓｅ." "Ｗｅ'ｒｅ ａｌｌ ｐｌａｙｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｇａｍｅ ｈｅｒｅ." Ｉ ｋｎｏｗ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ, ｔｈｅｙ ｋｎｏｗ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｂｕｔ ｔｈｅｙ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｐｒｅｔｅｎｄ. Ｓｏ ｗｅ ｐｒｅｔｅｎｄ. Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｔｈｅ ａｂｉｌｉｔｙ ｔｏ ｍａｋｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｆｅｅｌ ｇｏｏｄ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｄｅｌｕｓｉｏｎｓ, ｔｈｅ ｗｉｌｌ ａｎｄ ｐｅｒｆｏｒｍｉｎｇ ｓｋｉｌｌ ｔｏ, ｆｏｒ ａ ｆｅｗ ｍｉｎｕｔｅｓ, ｍａｋｅ ｔｈｅｍ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｒｉｇｈｔ, ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ. Ｆｏｒ ａ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｂｉｔ, ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｗａｌｋ ｂａｃｋ ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｈｏｔ, ｂｒｉｇｈｔ ｓｕｎ." Ｄｕａｎｅ ｗａｓｎ'ｔ ｌｉｓｔｅｎｉｎｇ ａｎｙｍｏｒｅ, ｂｕｔ ｄｒｉｎｋｉｎｇ ａｎｄ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｉｎｔｏ ｓｐａｃｅ. Ｈｅ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｓａｙ 'ｇｅｔ ｏｎ ｗｉｔｈ ｉｔ." Ｇｅｔ ｏｎ ｗｉｔｈ ｗｈａｔ? Ｔｈｅｙ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｔｅｌｌ ｙｏｕ ｔｈａｔ. Ｙｏｕ ｓｕｐｐｏｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｊｕｓｔ ｆｏｒｇｅｔ ｅｖｅｒｙｂｏｄｙ, ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ, ｍａｋｅ ａ ｎｅｗ ｌｉｆｅ? Ｈｏｗ ｍａｎｙ ｌｉｖｅｓ ｄｏ ｗｅ ｇｅｔ, ａｒｅ ｗｅ ｓｕｐｐｏｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｈａｖｅ? Ｈｏｗ ｃａｎ ｅｖｅｒｙｍａｎ'ｓ ｌｉｆｅ ｂｅ ｅｘｃｉｔｉｎｇ, ｈｉｓｔｏｒｉｃ? Ｗｈａｔ ａｒｅ ｗｅ ｓｕｐｐｏｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｄｏ? Ｎｏｔ ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ ｉｓ ｃｒｅａｔｉｖｅ. Ｎｏｔ ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ ｉｓ ｔａｌｅｎｔｅｄ. Ａ ｌｏｔ ｏｆ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ａｒｅｎ'ｔ ｅｖｅｎ ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒｌｙ ｓｍａｒｔ. Ｗｈａｔ ｔｈｅ ｈｅｌｌ ａｒｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｓｕｐｐｏｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｇｅｔ ｏｎ ｗｉｔｈ? Ｆｉｎｄｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｏｎｅ ｔｒｕｅ ｌｏｖｅ? Ｗｈａｔ ｋｉｎｄ ｏｆ ｂｕｌｌｓｈｉｔ ｉｓ ｔｈａｔ? Ｗｈａｔ...ｙｏｕ ｇｉｖｅ ａ ｍａｒｒｉａｇｅ ａ ｆｅｗ ｍｏｎｔｈｓ ａｎｄ ｉｆ ｉｔ ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ ｔｕｒｎ ｏｕｔ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｔｈｅ ｏｎｅ ｔｒｕｅ ｏｎｅ ｊｕｓｔ ｓａｙ, 'ｓｏｒｒｙ, ｍｙ ｍｉｓｔａｋｅ' ａｎｄ ｆｏｒｇｅｔ ａｂｏｕｔ ｉｔ?" Ｄｕａｎｅ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ａｔ Ｍａｒｔｉｎ, ｎｏｄｄｅｄ ａｎｄ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｍｙ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ ｄｉｄ ｔｈａｔ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｓｈｅ ｗａｓ ａｈｅａｄ ｏｆ ｈｅｒ ｔｉｍｅ, ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ ｓｈｅｄ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｃｕｌｌｓ ａｎｄ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ ｎｅｗ. Ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ ｉｎ ｌｉｖｉｎｇ ｗｉｔｈ ｈｅｒ ｍｉｓｔａｋｅｓ. Ｉ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｂｌａｍｅ ｈｅｒ ｆｏｒ ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ ｍｙ ｆａｔｈｅｒ. Ｎｏｂｏｄｙ ｗｉｔｈ ａｎｙ ｓｅｎｓｅ ｓｔａｙｅｄ ａｒｏｕｎｄ ｈｉｍ. Ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｔｗｏ ｉｎ ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ, Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ...ｔｈｅｙ ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ｌａｓｔ. Ｔｈｅ ｆｏｕｒｔｈ ｏｎｅ ｓｈｅ'ｓ ｓｔａｙｅｄ ｗｉｔｈ ａｎｄ ｓｅｅｍｓ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｈａｐｐｙ, ｂｕｔ Ｉ ｗｏｎｄｅｒ. Ｉｓ ｔｈａｔ ｈｅｒ ｏｎｅ ｔｒｕｅ ｌｏｖｅ? Ｉｓ ｉｔ ｏｒ ｄｉｄ ｓｈｅ ｊｕｓｔ ｄｅｃｉｄｅ, ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｉｔ. Ｄｏｅｓ ｌｏｖｅ ｈａｐｐｅｎ ｏｒ ｄｏ ｗｅ ｃｒｅａｔｅ ｉｔ? Ｊｕｓｔ ｇｅｔ ｔｉｒｅｄ ｏｆ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ａｎｄ ｍａｋｅ ｄｏ ｗｉｔｈ ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ ｗｅ'ｖｅ ｇｏｔ?" "Ｍａｋｉｎｇ ｄｏ," Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｓｅｃｒｅｔ ｔｏ ｈａｐｐｉｎｅｓｓ." "Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｈａｐｐｉｎｅｓｓ ｇｏｔ ｔｏ ｄｏ ｗｉｔｈ ｉｔ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ａｃｒｏｓｓ ｔｈｅ ｒｏｏｍ, ｔｈｅｎ ｃｕｔ ｈｉｓ ｅｙｅｓ ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ ｂａｃｋ ｔｏ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｎｄ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｙｏｕｒ ｃａｒ ｈｅｒｅ?" "Ｓｕｒｅ." "Ｃａｎ Ｉ ｇｅｔ ａ ｒｉｄｅ?" "Ｂｅｅｎ ｈｅｒｅ ｔｏｏ ｌｏｎｇ. Ｉ'ｌｌ ｂｅ ｃａｌｌｉｎｇ ａ ｃａｂ Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ." "Ｉ'ｌｌ ｄｒｉｖｅ. Ｉ'ｖｅ ｇｏｔ ｔｏ ｇｅｔ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｈｅｒｅ." Ｈｅ ｐｏｉｎｔｅｄ ｗｉｔｈ ｈｉｓ ｃｈｉｎ ａｔ ａ ｌｅａｎ, ｔ-ｓｈｉｒｔｅｄ ｍａｎ ｗｉｔｈ ｔａｔｔｏｏｓ ａｎｄ ｌｏｎｇ ｈａｉｒ. "Ｔｈａｔ ｇｕｙ'ｓ ｓｃａｒｙ." "Ｗｅｌｌ." "Ｗｅｌｌ, ｃｏｍｅ ｏｎ." "Ｃｏｍｅ ｏｎ, ｐｌｅａｓｅ. Ｌｅａｎｉｎｇ ｆｏｒｗａｒｄ, Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｐｕｔ ｈｉｓ ｈａｎｄ ｏｎ Ｄｕａｎｅ'ｓ ａｒｍ ａｎｄ ｓｑｕｅｅｚｅｄ ｉｔ. "Ｉ'ｌｌ ｂｕｙ ｙｏｕ ａ ｂｅｅｒ ｓｏｍｅｗｈｅｒｅ ｅｌｓｅ." Ｄｕａｎｅ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ｄｏｗｎ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｈａｎｄ ｇｒｉｐｐｉｎｇ ｈｉｓ ａｒｍ ａｎｄ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｎｏｗ Ｉ ｋｎｏｗ Ｉ'ｍ ｄｒｕｎｋ." "Ｈｏｗ'ｓ ｔｈａｔ?" "Ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ｊｕｍｐ ｗｈｅｎ ｙｏｕ ｔｏｕｃｈｅｄ ｍｅ. Ｍａｋｅｓ ｍｅ ｊｕｍｐ, ｕｓｕａｌｌｙ, ｗｈｅｎ ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ ｔｏｕｃｈｅｓ ｍｅ." Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｙａｎｋｅｄ ｈｉｓ ｈａｎｄ ａｗａｙ. "Ｉ'ｍ ｓｏｒｒｙ." "Ｎｏ, ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ａｌｌ ｒｉｇｈｔ." "Ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｌｉｋｅ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｔｏｕｃｈｅｄ?" "Ｓｕｒｅ Ｉ ｄｏ. Ｉ ｍｅａｎ Ｉ ｌｉｋｅ ｉｔ ｆｉｎｅ. Ｉｔ'ｓ ｊｕｓｔ Ｉ'ｍ ａｆｒａｉｄ ｏｆ ｉｔ. Ｍａｋｅｓ ｍｅ ｎｅｒｖｏｕｓ. Ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈｙ." "Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ａｆｒａｉｄ ｏｆ ｂｅｉｎｇ ｔｏｕｃｈｅｄ?" "Ｉｔ'ｓ ｎｏｔ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｔｏｕｃｈ Ｉ'ｍ ａｆｒａｉｄ ｏｆ, ｉｔ'ｓ ｗｈａｔ ｔｈｅｙ'ｌｌ ｆｅｅｌ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｎ ｔｈｅ ｔａｌｌ, ｔｈｉｎ ｍａｎ ｗｉｔｈ ｌｏｎｇ ｈａｉｒ ａｎｄ ｔａｔｔｏｏｓ ｔｈａｔ Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｈａｄ ｂｅｅｎ ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｄｏｄｇｅ ｗａｓ ｂｅｓｉｄｅ ｔｈｅｍ ｓａｙｉｎｇ ｔｏ Ｍａｒｔｉｎ, "Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｉｓ? Ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ｔｏ ａｃｔ ｙｏｕｒ ａｇｅ?" "Ｊｕｓｔ ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ ｗｈａｔ ｉｔ'ｓ ｌｉｋｅ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｗｉｔｈ ａ ｍａｎ." "Ｉ'ｖｅ ｓｐｉｔ ｏｕｔ ｍｏｒｅ ｍａｎ ｔｈａｎ ｈｅ ｉｓ." "Ｉｆ ｙｏｕ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｏｎｌｙ ｌｉｖｅ ｕｐ ｔｏ ｙｏｕｒ ｉｍａｇｉｎａｔｉｏｎ, ｗｈａｔ ａ ｗｏｒｌｄ ｉｔ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｂｅ," Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｉ ｏｎｌｙ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｌｉｖｅ ｕｐ ｔｏ ｙｏｕｒ'ｓ ｄｅａｒ." Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｓｔｏｏｄ ｔｈｅｎ, ｔｕｇｇｉｎｇ ａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ'ｓ ａｒｍ, ｐｒｏｄｄｉｎｇ ｈｉｍ ｔｏ ｓｔｉｆｆｌｙ ｐｕｓｈ ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ ｔｏ ｈｉｓ ｆｅｅｔ. "Ｌｉｓｔｅｎ, Ｉ'ｄ ｌｏｖｅ ｔｏ ｃｈｉｔ ｃｈａｔ, ｂｕｔ Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｔａｋｅ ｍｙ ｆｒｉｅｎｄ ｈｅｒｅ ｈｏｍｅ." Ｔｈｅ ｙｏｕｎｇ ｍａｎ ｓａｉｄ ｔｏ Ｄｕａｎｅ, "Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｙｏｕｒ ｎａｍｅ ｆｒｉｅｎｄ?" "Ｄｕａｎｅ." "Ｈｅ ｌｉｋｅｓ ｉｔ ｒｏｕｇｈ, Ｄｕａｎｅ." "Ｉ'ｄ ｔｅｌｌ ｙｏｕ ｔｏ ｇｏ ｆｕｃｋ ｙｏｕｒｓｅｌｆ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ, "ｂｕｔ Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｉｔ'ｓ ｔｏｏ ｌａｔｅ." "Ｗｅｌｌ, ｈｅ ｄｏｅｓ ｓｐｅａｋ." Ｗｈｉｌｅ ｐｕｌｌｉｎｇ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｔｏｗａｒｄ ｔｈｅ ｄｏｏｒ Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｐｒｅｔｅｎｄｅｄ ｔｏ ｌｏｏｋ ａｔ ｈｉｓ ｗａｔｃｈ. "Ｓｃｈｏｏｌ'ｓ ｌｅｔｔｉｎｇ ｏｕｔ Ｂｕｃｋ. Ｍａｙｂｅ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｐｉｃｋ ｕｐ ａ ｓｐｅｃｉａｌ ｅｄ ｓｔｕｄｅｎｔ ｏｒ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ." "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｒｅａｌｌｙ." "Ｗｈａｔ?" "Ｌｉｋｅ ｉｔ ｒｏｕｇｈ. Ｎｏｔ ｒｅａｌｌｙ. Ｔｈａｔ ｗａｓ Ｂｕｃｋ, ｈｅ ｇａｖｅ ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ ｔｈａｔ ｎａｍｅ." "Ｂｕｃｋ?" "Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｇｕｙ ｉｎ Ｍｉｄｎｉｇｈｔ Ｃｏｗｂｏｙ, ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ? Ｔｈｅ ｍｏｖｉｅ?" "Ｙｅａｈ Ｉ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｂｏｏｋ ｔｏｏ." "Ｏｈ, ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｒｅａｄ?" "Ｉ ｕｓｅｄ ｔｏ." "Ｕｓｅｄ ｔｏ?" "Ｃａｎ'ｔ ｃｏｎｃｅｎｔｒａｔｅ ａｎｙｍｏｒｅ. Ｈｅ ｙｏｕｒ ｌｏｖｅｒ?" "Ｏｈ ｌｏｒｄ, ｍｏｒｅ ｌｉｋｅ ａ ｂｒｅａｔｈｉｎｇ ｖｉｂｒａｔｏｒ. Ｈｅ ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ ｈａｖｅ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ ｓｏｕｌ ｔｏ ｂｅ ａ ｌｏｖｅｒ. Ｏｒ ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ. Ｏｒ ｉｎｔｅｌｌｉｇｅｎｃｅ. Ｌｉｓｔｅｎ, ｙｏｕ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｈａｖｅ ｓｅｘ?" "Ｉ'ｄ ｒａｔｈｅｒ ｎｏｔ." "Ｗａｎｔ ｍｅ ｔｏ ｓｕｃｋ ｙｏｕｒ ｄｉｃｋ?" "Ｎｏ, ｔｈａｎｋ ｙｏｕ. Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｓｗｉｎｇ ｔｈａｔ ｗａｙ." "Ｇｏｏｄ. Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｈａｖｅ ｓｅｘ ｅｉｔｈｅｒ. Ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｇｅｔ ｔｈａｔ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｗａｙ ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｊｕｓｔ ｂｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｗｉｔｈ ｅａｃｈ ｏｔｈｅｒ, ｓｅｅｍｓ ｔｏ ｍｅ. Ｗａｎｔ ａ ｂｅｅｒ?" "Ｓｕｒｅ. Ｙｏｕ ｔｈｉｎｋ Ｉ'ｍ ｇａｙ?" "Ｎｏ. Ｇｕｙｓ ｃｒｏｓｓｏｖｅｒ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ, ｅｓｐｅｃｉａｌｌｙ ｗｈｅｎ ｔｈｅｙ ｇｏｔ ａ ｆｅｗ ｄｒｉｎｋｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅｍ. Ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｔｒｙ ｔｈｅ ｂｉｇ ｎｏ-ｎｏ Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ. Ｉｔ'ｓ ｎｏｔ ｔｈａｔ ｕｎｃｏｍｍｏｎ. Ｊｕｓｔ ｃｕｒｉｏｓｉｔｙ." "Ｉ'ｍ ｎｏｔ ｃｕｒｉｏｕｓ." "Ｈｅｙ, ｍａｎ, ｔｈａｔ ｓｕｉｔｓ ｍｅ ｆｉｎｅ. Ｉ ｇｅｔ ｓｏ ｔｉｒｅｄ ｏｆ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ, ｆｉｎｄｉｎｇ, ｓｅｄｕｃｉｎｇ ｏｒ ｂｅｉｎｇ ｓｅｄｕｃｅｄ. Ｔｈｅ ｗｈｏｌｅ ｓａｄ ｇａｍｅ. Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ Ｉ ｊｕｓｔ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｃｌｉｐ ｔｈａｔ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｆｕｃｋｅｒ, ｇｅｔ ｉｔ ａｌｌ ｏｆｆ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｍｉｎｄ." "Ｉｔ ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ ｂｏｔｈｅｒ ｍｅ ｍｕｃｈ ａｎｙｍｏｒｅ." "Ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｇｅｔ ｈｏｒｎｙ?" "Ｎｏｔ ｓｏ ｍｕｃｈ." "Ｎｏ ｒｅｌａｔｉｏｎｓｈｉｐｓ?" "Ｎｏ." "Ｑｕｉｃｋ ｔｒｉｐｓ ｄｏｗｎ ｔｏ Ｇｒａｎｄ Ａｖｅｎｕｅ?" "Ｎｏ." "Ｈｏｗ ｌｏｎｇ'ｓ ｉｔ ｂｅｅｎ ｆｏｒ ｙｏｕ?" "Ｓｉｎｃｅ Ｉ'ｖｅ ｈａｄ ｓｅｘ?" "Ｓｉｎｃｅ ｔｈｅ ｌａｓｔ ｐｏｕｎｄｉｎｇ." "Ｔｗｅｌｖｅ ｙｅａｒｓ." "Ｊｅｓｕｓ Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ, ｄｏｅｓ ｉｔ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｗｏｒｋ?" "Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｓｏ." "Ｉ ｅｎｖｙ ｙｏｕ. Ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ, Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｔｈｉｎｋ Ｉ ｇｅｔ ｔｈａｔ ｈｏｒｎｙ ｅｉｔｈｅｒ, ｎｏｔ ｒｅａｌｌｙ. Ｊｕｓｔ ｗａｎｔ ｌｏｖｅ. Ｓｅｘ ｉｓ ａｓ ｃｌｏｓｅ ａｓ Ｉ ｃａｎ ｇｅｔ Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ." "Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｂｒｅａｋｉｎｇ ｍｙ ｈｅａｒｔ." "Ｓｏｒｒｙ ｔｏ..." "Ｎｏ, ｎｏ. Ｉ'ｍ ｎｏｔ ｂｅｉｎｇ ａ ｗｉｓｅ ａｓｓ. Ｉ ｍｅａｎ ｉｔ. Ｉ ｗｅｎｔ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ａ ｐｅｒｉｏｄ, ｂａｃｋ ｉｎ ｍｙ ｔｈｉｒｔｉｅｓ. Ｕｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｇｏ ｔｏ ａｄｕｌｔ ｂｏｏｋｓｔｏｒｅｓ ａ ｌｏｔ. Ｗｉｆｅ ａｎｄ Ｉ ｗｅｒｅｎ'ｔ ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ ａｌｏｎｇ. Ｉ ｕｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｇｏ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｂｏｏｔｈｓ, ｐｕｔ ｉｎ ｍｙ ｔｏｋｅｎｓ. Ｓｋｉｐ ｆｒｏｍ ｏｎｅ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｎｅｘｔ ｗａｔｃｈｉｎｇ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｆｕｃｋ. Ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈｙ. Ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ｇｅｔ ｍｅ ｏｆｆ ｏｒ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ. Ｊｕｓｔ ｗａｎｔｅｄ ｔｏ ｓｅｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｔｏｇｅｔｈｅｒ ｉｎ ｐａｓｓｉｏｎ. Ｅｖｅｎ ｉｆ ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｆａｋｅ." "Ａｎｙｗａｙ, ｔｈｅｒｅ ｕｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｂｅ ａｌｌ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｇｕｙｓ, ｈａｎｇｉｎｇ ｏｕｔ. Ｇａｙ ｇｕｙｓ Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ. Ａｌｌ ｏｆ ｔｈｅｍ ｓｏ ｌｏｎｅｌｙ, ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｔｏｕｃｈ, ｍａｋｅ ｃｏｎｔａｃｔ. Ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ ａｌｏｎｅ, ｂａｃｋ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｂｏｏｔｈｓ. Ｎｅｖｅｒ ｓａｉｄ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ, ｊｕｓｔ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ. Ｔｈｅｉｒ ｅｙｅｓ, ｓｏ ｍｕｃｈ ｌｏｎｅｌｉｎｅｓｓ, ｐａｉｎ. Ｔｈｅｙ ｂｒｏｋｅ ｍｙ ｈｅａｒｔ." "Ｅｖｅｒ ｓｉｎｃｅ ｔｈｅｎ Ｉ'ｖｅ ｓｅｅｎ ｔｈｅ ｇａｙ ｌｉｆｅ ｎｏｔ ａｓ ｂａｄ ｏｒ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ, ｂｕｔ ｓｏ ｓａｄ. Ｊｕｓｔ ｓｏ ｓａｄ." "Ｗｅ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｈａｖｅ ａ ｍｏｎｏｐｏｌｙ ｏｎ ｓａｄｎｅｓｓ. Ｉｔ'ｓ ｎｏｔ ｊｕｓｔ ａ ｇａｙ ｔｈｉｎｇ." "Ｉ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｉ'ｍ ｅｘａｇｇｅｒａｔｉｎｇ. Ｙｏｕ ｇｅｔ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｉｍｐｒｅｓｓｉｏｎｓ, ｔｈｅｙ ｓｔａｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｙｏｕ." Ｔｈａｔ ｎｉｇｈｔ, ａｆｔｅｒ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｈａｄ Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｄｒｉｖｅ ｈｉｍ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ＶＡ ａｎｄ ｈｅ ｃｈｅｃｋｅｄ ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｓｕｂｓｔａｎｃｅ ａｂｕｓｅ ｗａｒｄ, ｗｈｅｎ ｈｅ ｗａｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｓｍｏｋｉｎｇ ｓｈａｃｋ, ｔｈｅ ｍａｎ ｗｈｏ ｃａｍｅ ｉｎ ｗａｓ ｙｏｕｎｇ ａｎｄ ｂｏｗｅｄ, ｂｅａｒｉｎｇ, ｐｒｅｍａｔｕｒｅｌｙ, ａｎ ｏｌｄ ｍａｎ'ｓ ｈｕｍｐ, ｈｉｓ ｌｏｎｇ ｂｌａｃｋ ｈａｉｒ ｈａｎｇｉｎｇ ｓｔｒａｉｇｈｔ ｄｏｗｎ ｐａｓｔ ｈｉｓ ｅａｒｓ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｆｌｏｏｒ. Ｈｅ ｗａｌｋｅｄ ｐａｓｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｎｄ ｓａｔ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｎｃｈ, ｔｈｅｎ ｔｕｒｎｅｄ ｈｉｓ ｈｅａｄ ｓｉｄｅｗａｙｓ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ａｔ ｈｉｍ ｏｎ ａｎ ｕｐｗａｒｄ ａｎｇｌｅ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ｔｈｅ ｂｌｉｎｄ ｏｆ ｈｉｓ ｈａｉｒ ａｎｄ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｈｏｗ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｉｎｇ?" Ｔｈｅ ｙｏｕｎｇ ｍａｎ ｈａｄ ａ ｗｉｄｅ ｆａｃｅ ｃｅｎｔｅｒｅｄ ｂｙ ａ ｃｌｕｓｔｅｒ ｏｆ ｓｍａｌｌ, ｆｉｎｅ ｆｅａｔｕｒｅｓ ｔｈａｔ ｓｍｉｌｅｄ ａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｎｄ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｉ'ｍ ｈａｖｉｎｇ ｉｔ ｅａｓｙ ｔｈｉｓ ｔｉｍｅ. Ｉ ｗａｓ ｏｎｌｙ ｄｒｉｎｋｉｎｇ ａ ｗｅｅｋ. Ｔｈｅｙ ｌｅｔ ｙｏｕ ｓｍｏｋｅ ｉｎ ｈｅｒｅ?" "Ｙｅａｈ." "Ｙｏｕ ｇｏｔ ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ ｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｏｓｅ?" "Ｓｕｒｅ." Ｄｕａｎｅ ｈｅｌｄ ｏｕｔ ｈｉｓ ｐａｃｋ ａｎｄ, ａｓ ｈｅ ｔｏｏｋ ｉｔ, ｆｉｓｈｅｄ ｏｕｔ ａ ｓｍｏｋｅ ｔｈｅ ｙｏｕｎｇ ｍａｎ ｋｅｐｔ ｓｐｅａｋｉｎｇ. "Ｔｈｅｙ ｐｕｍｐ ｙｏｕ ｓｏ ｆｕｌｌ ｏｆ ｄｒｕｇｓ ｙｏｕ ｎｅｅｄ ｔｏ ｐｉｓｓ, ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｆｉｎｄ ｙｏｕｒ ｏｗｎ ｄｉｃｋ. Ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ ｉｎ ａ ｃｏｒｎｅｒ ｉｎ ａ ｐｕｄｄｌｅ ｏｆ ｐｉｓｓ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｈａｐｐｙ ａｓ ａ ｃｌａｍ, ｔｈｅｙ'ｖｅ ｇｏｔ ｙｏｕ ｓｏ ｆｕｃｋｅｄ ｕｐ." Ｈｅ ｇｏｔ ａ ｃｉｇａｒｅｔｔｅ ｏｕｔ ａｎｄ ｉｎｔｏ ｈｉｓ ｍｏｕｔｈ, ｗａｓ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｕｐ ｔｏ ａｓｋ ｆｏｒ ａ ｌｉｇｈｔ ａｎｄ ｓａｗ ｔｈａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｗａｓ ａｌｒｅａｄｙ ｈｏｌｄｉｎｇ ｏｕｔ ｈｉｓ ｌｉｇｈｔｅｒ. Ｈｅ ｌｅａｎｅｄ ｆｏｒｗａｒｄ, ｐｕｌｌｅｄ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｃｉｇａｒｅｔｔｅ, ｅｘｈａｌｅｄ ｓｍｏｋｅ, ｎｏｄｄｅｄ ｔｈａｎｋｓ, ｔｈｅｎ ｌｅａｎｅｄ ｄｏｗｎ ａｎｄ ｓｐｏｋｅ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｆｌｏｏｒ. "Ｕｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｔｈｅｙ'ｄ ｓｔｏｎｅ ｙｏｕ. Ｔｈｅｎ ｔｈｅｙ ｔｏｏｋ ｔｏ ｎａｉｌｉｎｇ ｙｏｕ ｔｏ ａ ｔｒｅｅ. Ｔｈｅｎ ｔｈｅｙ ｔｉｅｄ ｙｏｕ ｔｏ ａ ｔｒｅｅ ａｎｄ ｂｕｒｎｅｄ ｙｏｕｒ ａｓｓ ｕｐ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｎ ｔｈｅｙ ｈｕｎｇ ｙｏｕ ｆｒｏｍ ａ ｔｒｅｅ ａｎｄ ｍａｙｂｅ ｂｕｒｎｅｄ ｕｐ ｙｏｕｒ ａｓｓ ｔｏｏ." Ｈｅ ｓｈｏｏｋ ｈｉｓ ｈｅａｄ, ｔｏｏｋ ｔｈｅ ｃｉｇａｒｅｔｔｅ ｆｒｏｍ ｈｉｓ ｍｏｕｔｈ ａｎｄ ｔｉｐｐｅｄ ｔｈｅ ａｓｈ ｖｅｒｙ ｃａｒｅｆｕｌｌｙ ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ａｓｈｔｒａｙ. "Ｎｏｗ ｔｈｅ ｄｒｕｇ ｙｏｕ ｉｎｔｏ ａ ｚｏｍｂｉｅ. Ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈｉｃｈ ｉｓ ｍｏｒｅ ｄｉａｂｏｌｉｃａｌ." Ｈｅ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ｕｐ ａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ, ｇｒｉｎｎｅｄ. "Ｉ'ｍ Ｌｙｎｎ. Ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｍｉｎｄ ｍｅ. Ｉ'ｍ ｊｕｓｔ ｏｎｅ ｍｏｒｅ ｃｒａｚｙ Ｉｎｄｉａｎ. Ｇｏ ａｈｅａｄ, ａｓｋ." "Ａｓｋ ｗｈａｔ?" "Ａｓｋ ｍｅ ｗｈａｔ ｔｒｉｂｅ Ｉ ｂｅｌｏｎｇ ｔｏ. Ｉｓｎ'ｔ ｔｈａｔ ｗｈａｔ ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｗｏｎｄｅｒｉｎｇ ａｂｏｕｔ?" "Ａｌｌ ｒｉｇｈｔ. Ｗｈａｔ ｔｒｉｂｅ ｄｏ ｙｏｕ ｂｅｌｏｎｇ ｔｏ?" "Ｎｏｒｔｈｅｒｎ Ｃｈｅｙｅｎｎｅ." "Ｉ'ｍ ｐａｒｔ Ｎａｔｉｖｅ Ａｍｅｒｉｃａｎ." "Ｙｏｕ ｌｏｏｋ ｗｈｉｔｅ." "Ｂｕｔ Ｉ'ｍ ｎｏｔ, ｎｏｔ ａｌｌ. Ｉ'ｍ Ｉｎｄｉａｎ ａｎｄ Ｊｅｗｉｓｈ ａｎｄ ｗｈｉｔｅ." "Ｗｈａｔ ｂｒａｎｄ Ｉｎｄｉａｎ?" "Ｓｅｍｉｎｏｌｅ ｏｎ ｍｙ ｆａｔｈｅｒ'ｓ ｓｉｄｅ, Ｃｈｅｒｏｋｅｅ ｏｎ ｍｙ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ." "Ｃｈｅｒｏｋｅｅ. Ｅｖｅｒｙ ｗｈｉｔｅ ｍａｎ ｈａｓ ａ Ｃｈｅｒｏｋｅｅ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｗｏｏｄｐｉｌｅ. Ｓｅｍｉｎｏｌｅ'ｓ ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ. Ｎｏｔ ｍａｎｙ ｃｌａｉｍ Ｓｅｍｉｎｏｌｅ." "Ｗｅｌｌ, Ｏｋｌａｈｏｍａ Ｓｅｍｉｎｏｌｅｓ, ｔｈｅ ｏｎｅｓ ｔｈａｔ ｇａｖｅ ｕｐ." "Ａｌｌ Ｏｋｌａｈｏｍａ Ｉｎｄｉａｎｓ, ｅｘｉｌｅ Ｉｎｄｉａｎｓ." "Ｙｅａｈ, Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ. Ｗｈａｔ ｄｉｄ ｙｏｕ ｍｅａｎ, ｎｏｔ ｍａｎｙ ｃｌａｉｍ Ｓｅｍｉｎｏｌｅ?" "Ｗｈｉｔｅ ｗａｎｎａｂｅｅｓ. Ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｓｔａｒｔ ｔｅｌｌｉｎｇ ｙｏｕ ｈｏｗ ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｐａｒｔ Ｉｎｄｉａｎ, ｎａｔｉｖｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｓａｙ ｎｏｗ. Ｉ'ｍ ｐａｒｔ ｎａｔｉｖｅ. Ｔｈｅｙ ｕｓｕａｌｌｙ ｓａｙ Ｃｈｅｒｏｋｅｅ ｏｒ, ｔｈｅｓｅ ｄａｙｓ Ｌａｋｏｔａ ｉｓ ｂｉｇ. Ｒｅａｌ ｐｏｐｕｌａｒ ｔｒｉｂｅ, ｔｈｅ Ｌａｋｏｔａｓ. Ｎｏｔ Ｓｉｏｕｘ ａｎｙｍｏｒｅ. Ｌａｋｏｔａｓ. Ｊｅｗｉｓｈ ｔｏｏ?" "Ｙｅａｈ, ｍｙ ｇｒｅａｔ ｇｒａｎｄｍａ Ｋｅｎｎｉｓｏｎ ｗａｓ ａ Ｊｅｗｉｓｈ ｌａｄｙ." "Ｉｓ Ｋｅｎｎｉｓｏｎ ａ Ｊｅｗｉｓｈ ｎａｍｅ?" "Ｎｏ. Ｓｈｅ ｍａｒｒｉｅｄ ａｎ Ａｎｇｌｏ." "Ｍａｒｒｉｅｄ ａｗａｙ ｆｒｏｍ ｈｅｒ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ." "Ｙｅａｈ." "Ｍａｙｂｅ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｔｅｌｌ ｍｅ. Ｉ'ｖｅ ａｌｗａｙｓ ｗｏｎｄｅｒｅｄ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｉｓ. Ｙｏｕｒ Ｊｅｗｉｓｈ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ, ａｒｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｗｈｉｔｅ ｏｒ ｃｏｌｏｒｅｄ? Ｉ ｍｅａｎ ｔｈｅｙ ｓｅｅｍ ｗｈｉｔｅ, ｂｕｔ ｓｏ ｏｆｔｅｎ ｏｔｈｅｒ ｗｈｉｔｅｓ ｔｒｅａｔ ｔｈｅｍ ｌｉｋｅ ｃｏｌｏｒｅｄｓ. Ｉ'ｖｅ ｎｅｖｅｒ ｇｏｔ ａ ｈａｎｄｌｅ ｏｎ ｈｏｗ ｔｈａｔ ｗｏｒｋｓ." "Ｎｅｉｔｈｅｒ ｈａｖｅ Ｉ, ｎｏｗ ｔｈａｔ Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ ａｂｏｕｔ ｉｔ. Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ." "Ｗａｓ ｓｈｅ ａ ｐｒａｃｔｉｃｉｎｇ Ｊｅｗ?" "Ｎｏ, ｓｈｅ ｃｏｎｖｅｒｔｅｄ. Ｓｈｅ ｗａｓ Ｐｅｎｔａｃｏｓｔａｌ." "Ｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｅｍ." "Ｙｅａｈ." "Ｙｏｕ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｈｅａｒ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ ｆｕｎｎｙ?" "Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ." Ｔｈｅ ｙｏｕｎｇ ｍａｎ, Ｌｙｎｎ, ｓｕｃｋｅｄ ｓｍｏｋｅ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅ ｃｉｇａｒｅｔｔｅ, ｔｈｅｎ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ｕｐ ｓｉｄｅｗａｙｓ ａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｎｄ ｓｐｏｋｅ, ｌｅｔｔｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｗｏｒｄｓ ｃｏｍｅ ｏｕｔ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｅ ｓｍｏｋｅ. "Ｉ'ｍ ｔｈｅ ｓｏｎ ｏｆ Ｇｏｄ." "Ｏｈ ｙｅａｈ?" "Ｙｅａｈ, ｉｓｎ'ｔ ｔｈａｔ ａ ｈｏｏｔ. Ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ ｅｘｐｅｃｔ ｉｔ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｙｏｕ? "Ｎｏ, ｎｏ Ｉ ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ." "Ｄｒｕｎｋ ｇｏｄｄａｍｅｄ Ｉｎｄｉａｎ ｉｎ ｄｅｔｏｘ ｂｅｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ Ｏｎｅ. "Ｙｏｕ ｍｅａｎ ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｔｈｅ ｓｅｃｏｎｄ ｃｏｍｉｎｇ?" "Ｎｏ, ｎｏ. Ｉｔ'ｓ ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ ｂｅｆｏｒｅ. Ｍａｎｙ ｔｉｍｅｓ. Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ Ｉ'ｍ ｔｈｅ ｔｗｅｎｔｙ ｆｏｕｒｔｈ, ｂｕｔ Ｉ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｂｅ ｗｒｏｎｇ." "Ｉ ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｄ ｏｎｌｙ ｂｅ ｏｎｅ." "Ｓｏ ｄｉｄ Ｈｅ," Ｌｙｎｎ ｓａｉｄ, ｂｕｔ ｂｅｓｔ ｌａｉｄ ｐｌａｎｓ...ｊｕｓｔ ｈａｓｎ'ｔ ｗｏｒｋｅｄ ｏｕｔ...ｎｏｂｏｄｙ ｌｉｓｔｅｎｓ." "Ｏｈ," Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｙｅａｈ. Ｉｔ'ｓ ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｂｅ ａ ｐｉｓｓｅｒ ｔｏｏ. Ｉ ｍｅａｎ ｗｅ'ｖｅ ｂｅｅｎ ｐｒｅａｃｈｉｎｇ ｌｏｖｅ ｙｏｕ ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒ ｆｏｒ ｏｖｅｒ ｔｗｏ ｔｈｏｕｓａｎｄ ｙｅａｒｓ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｋｉｃｋｉｎｇ ｈｉｓ ａｓｓ. Ｙｏｕ'ｄ ｂｅ ｍａｄ ｔｏｏ. Ｉ'ｍ ｐｉｓｓｅｄ ａｓ ｈｅｌｌ. Ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ｋｉｄｓ?" "Ｙｅａｈ." "Ｔｈｅｎ ｙｏｕ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｍｅａｎ. Ｉｔ'ｓ ｎｏｔ ｅａｓｙ, ｗｅ ｋｎｏｗ ｔｈａｔ. Ｌｉｆｅ ｃａｎ ｂｅ ａ ｐａｉｎ. Ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｗｈｏ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｂｅ ａｌｏｎｅ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｆｉｎｄ ａ ｑｕｉｅｔ ｓｐｏｔ. Ｌｏｎｅｌｙ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｆｉｎｄ ａｎｙｏｎｅ ｔｏ ｔａｌｋ ｔｏ, ｍｕｃｈ ｌｅｓｓ ｆｕｃｋ." "Ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｗｈｏ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｗａｎｔ ｋｉｄｓ ｈａｖｅ ｔｈｅｍ ｅｖｅｒｙ ｔｉｍｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｔｕｒｎ ａｒｏｕｎｄ, ｈａｖｅ ｅｍ ｕｎｔｉｌ ｔｈｅｙ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｗｈａｔ ｔｏ ｄｏ. Ｄｅｓｅｒｔ ｔｈｅｍ, ｓｈｏｖｅ ｔｈｅｍ ｏｕｔ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｈｉｇｈｗａｙ ｏｒ ｔｏｓｓ ｔｈｅｍ ｉｎ ａ ｄｕｍｐｓｔｅｒ. Ｋｉｌｌ ｔｈｅｍ ａｎｄ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｗｈｏ ｗａｎｔ ａ ｂａｂｙ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｇｅｔ ｋｎｏｃｋｅｄ ｕｐ ｆｏｒ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ." "Ｙｏｕ ｗａｎｔ ａ ｔｈｉｎｇ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ａｌｌ ｏｕｔ. Ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｃａｒｅ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｋｎｅｅ ｄｅｅｐ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｓｈｉｔ. Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ ｗｏｒｋｓ. Ｔａｋｅ ｔｈｅ Ａｒｍｙ, ｔｒａｉｎ ｙｏｕ ｔｏ ｂｅ ａ ｍｅｄｉｃ, ａ ｍｅｄｉｃ ｄｕｒｉｎｇ ａ ｗａｒ ｗｈｅｎ ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ａ ｗｏｒｌｄ ｆｕｌｌ ｏｆ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｎｅｅｄｉｎｇ ｍｅｄｉｃａｌ ａｔｔｅｎｔｉｏｎ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ ｅｎｄ ｕｐ ｔｙｐｉｎｇ ｆｏｒｍｓ ｉｎ ａ ｃｏｍｐａｎｙ ｃｌｅｒｋ'ｓ ｏｆｆｉｃｅ." "Ｗｈａｔ?" Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ ａｎｄ Ｌｙｎｎ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ｕｐ ａｔ ｈｉｍ, ｓｍｉｌｉｎｇ. "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｄｏ ｔｈａｔ ｖｅｒｙ ｏｆｔｅｎ. Ｓｐｏｏｋｓ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｏｕｔ." "Ｉ..." Ｄｕａｎｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｌｏｏｋ, ｔａｋｅ ｉｔ ｅａｓｙ. Ｉ ｍｅａｎ ｙｏｕ ｇｕｙｓ ｈａｖｅｎ'ｔ ｇｏｔ ａ ｃｈａｎｃｅ ａｎｙｗａｙ. Ｌｏｏｋ, ｙｏｕ ｐｕｔ ｓｏｍｅ ｆｏｏｌ ｉｎｔｏ ａ ｐｏｓｉｔｉｏｎ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｔｈｅ ｏｎｌｙ ｔｈｉｎｇ ｔｈａｔ ｋｅｅｐｓ ｈｉｍ ｆｒｏｍ ｂｅｉｎｇ ａ ｌｉｏｎ ｔｕｒｄ ｉｓ ａ ｓｈａｒｐ ｓｔｉｃｋ, ｇｕｙ ｔｅｎｄｓ ｔｏ ｗｏｒｒｙ ｍｏｒｅ ａｂｏｕｔ ｓｔｉｃｋｓ...ｉｓ ｉｔ ｓｈａｒｐ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ...ｄｏ Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ....Ｔｈａｎ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｅ, ｔｈｅ ｍｅａｎｉｎｇ ｏｆ ｌｉｆｅ, Ｇｏｄ. Ｏｎｌｙ ｎａｔｕｒａｌ." "Ｂｕｔ ｍａｎｙ ｄｏ, ｗｏｒｒｙ ａｂｏｕｔ Ｇｏｄ, ｍｅａｎｉｎｇｓ ａｎｄ ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｐｏｉｎｔ. Ｄｅｓｐｉｔｅ ｉｔ ａｌｌ. Ｄｅｓｐｉｔｅ ｔｈｅ ｌｉｏｎｓ ａｎｄ ｓｔｉｆｆ ｐｒｉｃｋｓ ａｎｄ ｅｍｐｔｙ ｂｅｌｌｉｅｓ." "Ｌｏｏｋ ａｔ ｙｏｕ, ｔｈｅ ｈｅａｒｔ ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ ｇｏｔ, ｔｈｅ ｓｏｕｌ. Ｔｈｅ ｗａｙ ｙｏｕ ｆｅｅｌ, ａｆｔｅｒ ａｌｌ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｙｅａｒｓ. Ｆｅｅｌ ｓｏ ｍｕｃｈ ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ'ｔ ｅｖｅｎ ｍｏｖｅ, ｊｕｓｔ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｓｔａｎｄ ｔｈｅｒｅ ａｎｄ ｓｕｆｆｅｒ." "Ｔｈｅｓｅ ｔｈｉｎｇｓ ａｒｅ ｎｏｔｉｃｅｄ. Ｆｉｆｔｙ ｙｅａｒｓ ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ ｂｅｅｎ ａｔ ｉｔ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅｎ'ｔ ｌｅｔ ｕｐ. Ｉｆ ｅｍｏｔｉｏｎａｌ ｓｃａｒｓ ｗｅｒｅ ｖｉｓｉｂｌｅ, ｐｒｉｎｔｅｄ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｓｋｉｎ ｌｉｋｅ ｔａｔｔｏｏｓ, ｙｏｕ ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ ｈａｖｅ ａｎｙ ｐｌａｉｎ ｓｋｉｎ ｌｅｆｔ." Ｌｙｎｎ ｌｉｆｔｅｄ ｈｉｓ ｈｅａｄ, ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ｏｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｓｈａｃｋ ｗｉｎｄｏｗ ａｎｄ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ｄｏｗｎ ａｇａｉｎ. Ｔｈｅｎ ｈｅ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｙｏｕ ｓｅｅ ｔｈａｔ ｇｕｙ, ｔｈｅ ｏｒｉｅｎｔａｌ ｇｕｙ ｓｗｅｅｐｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｓｉｄｅｗａｌｋ? Ｈｅ'ｓ Ｖｉｅｔｎａｍｅｓｅ, ａ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｏｌｄｅｒ ｔｈａｎ ｙｏｕ. Ｈｅ'ｓ ｌｏｓｔ ｔｗｏ ｆａｍｉｌｉｅｓ, ｗｉｖｅｓ ａｎｄ ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ. Ｔｈｒｅｅ ｉｆ ｙｏｕ ｃｏｕｎｔ ｈｉｓ ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ, ｓｉｂｌｉｎｇｓ, ｃｏｕｓｉｎｓ." "Ｇｏｎｅ. Ｄｅａｄ ａｎｄ ｓｃａｔｔｅｒｅｄ. Ｄｉｓａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ. Ｌｏｓｔ ａ ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ ｔｏｏ, ｈｉｓ ｐｒｏｐｅｒｔｙ, ｃａｒｅｅｒ, ｌｅｇａｃｙ, ｅｖｅｒｙ ｇｏｄｄａｍ ｔｈｉｎｇ." "Ｓｏ ｗｈａｔ'ｓ ｈｅ ｄｏ ｉｎ ｔｈｉｓ ｈａｒｄ ｗｈｉｔｅ ｌａｎｄ ｏｆ ｇｕｔｔｅｒａｌ ｓｐｅｅｃｈ ａｎｄ ｎｏ ｒｅｓｐｅｃｔ? Ｈｅ ｔｒｉｅｓ ａｇａｉｎ. Ｈｅ'ｓ ｋｅｅｐｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｆａｉｔｈ ｗｉｔｈ ｗｉｆｅ ｎｕｍｂｅｒ ｔｈｒｅｅ, ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ. Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｆｒａｎｋｌｙ ｂｅｙｏｎｄ ｂｅｌｉｅｆ, ｂｕｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｉｔ ｉｓ. Ａｎｄ ｔｈａｔ ｌａｄｙ, ｈｉｓ ｗｉｆｅ. Ｓｈｅ'ｓ ｆｒｏｍ Ｃａｍｂｏｄｉａ ａｎｄ ｈｅｒ ｓｔｏｒｙ ｍａｋｅｓ ｈｉｓ ｌｏｏｋ ｌｉｋｅ ａ ｆａｉｒｙ ｔａｌｅ. Ｔｈａｔ ｌａｄｙ ｏｎｃｅ ｈａｄ ｔｏ ｗａｔｃｈ ａ ｃｈｉｌｄ ｏｆ ｈｅｒｓ ｓｌａｕｇｈｔｅｒｅｄ ｌｉｋｅ ａ ｐｉｇ, ｒｉｇｈｔ ｉｎ ｆｒｏｎｔ ｏｆ ｈｅｒ." "Ａｎｄ ｓｈｅ'ｓ ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ａｇａｉｎ, ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ａｇａｉｎ." "Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｇｏｄｄａｍ ｍｉｒａｃｌｅ, ｔｈｅ ｍｅａｎｉｎｇ ｏｆ ｌｉｆｅ, ｔｈｅ ｓｅｃｒｅｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｅ. Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｔｈｅ ｐｏｉｎｔ. Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ Ｇｏｄ'ｓ ｔｒｕｅ ｎａｍｅ." "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ." "Ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｌｏｏｋ, ｗｏｕｌｄ ｙｏｕ ｇｉｖｅ ｍｅ ｏｎｅ ｔｈｉｎｇ?" "Ｗｈａｔ?" "Ｔｈｅ ｐｒｏｐｏｓｉｔｉｏｎ ｔｈａｔ ｍｏｓｔ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ, ｆｕｃｋｅｄ ｕｐ ａｎｄ ａｓ ｓｔｕｐｉｄ ａｓ ｔｈｅｙ ａｒｅ, ｄｏ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｓｔ ｔｈｅｙ ｃａｎ. Ｗｏｕｌｄ ｙｏｕ ｇｉｖｅ ｍｅ ｔｈａｔ ｍｕｃｈ?" "Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ." "Ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｓａｙ Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ. Ｓａｙ ｙｅｓ ｏｒ ｎｏ." "Ｙｅｓ." "Ｗｅｌｌ ｔｈｅｎ?" Ｄｕａｎｅ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ａｔ ｈｉｍ ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ ｃｏｍｐｒｅｈｅｎｓｉｏｎ ａｎｄ Ｌｙｎｎ ｗｉｎｃｅｄ. "Ｗｅｌｌ ｔｈｅｎ, ｓｏ ｄｏ ｙｏｕ. Ｔｈｅ ｂｅｓｔ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ. Ｄｕｈ...." Ｔｈｅ ｎｅｘｔ ｄａｙ ａ ｎｕｒｓｅ ｎａｍｅｄ Ｓｕｓａｎ ｗｈｏ ｈａｄ ｃｈｅｃｋｅｄ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｉｎ ｃａｍｅ ｉｎ ｔｏ ｔｅｌｌ ｈｉｍ ｈｅ ｗａｓ ｒｅａｄｙ ｔｏ ｇｏ. "Ａｌｒｅａｄｙ?" "Ｙｅｓ. Ｗｅ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｓｏ. Ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ａ ｐｒｅｔｔｙ ｇｏｏｄ ｒｅｃｏｒｄ ｏｆ ｓｏｂｒｉｅｔｙ. Ｗｅ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｔｈｉｓ ｓｌｉｐ ｉｓ ｔｅｒｒｉｂｌｙ ｓｉｇｎｉｆｉｃａｎｔ. "Ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ'ｔ?" "Ｎｏ, ｗｅ ｄｏｎ'ｔ. Ａｎｄ ｙｏｕｒ ｆｒｉｅｎｄ ｈａｓ ｃｏｍｅ ｆｏｒ ｙｏｕ, ａｓｋｉｎｇ ｉｆ ｈｅ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｔａｋｅ ｙｏｕ ｈｏｍｅ, ｓｏ ｗｅ ｄｅｃｉｄｅｄ, ｓｉｎｃｅ ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ, ｙｏｕ ｍｉｇｈｔ ａｓ ｗｅｌｌ ｇｏ ｈｏｍｅ." "Ｍｙ ｆｒｉｅｎｄ?" "Ｙｅｓ." Ｓｈｅ ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ａｔ ａ ｃｌｉｐｂｏａｒｄ ｏｎ ｈｅｒ ｄｅｓｋ, ｓｅａｒｃｈｅｄ ｗｉｔｈ ａ ｆｏｒｅｆｉｎｇｅｒ ｆｏｒ ａ ｍｏｍｅｎｔ, ｔｈｅｎ ｓａｉｄ, "Ａ Ｍｒ. Ｍａｒｔｉｎ." Ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｈａｌｌ, ｈｏｌｄｉｎｇ ａ ｈａｎｄ ｆｕｌｌ ｏｆ ｄｉｓｃｈａｒｇｅ ｐａｐｅｒｓ, ｈｅ ｋｎｏｃｋｅｄ ｏｎ Ｌｙｎｎ'ｓ ｒｏｏｍ ｄｏｏｒ ａｎｄ ｓｔｕｃｋ ｈｉｓ ｈｅａｄ ｉｎ. "Ｉ'ｍ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｈｅｒｅ," ｈｅ ｓａｉｄ. "Ｙｏｕ ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ?" "Ｙｅａｈ, ｇｏｉｎｇ ｈｏｍｅ." "Ｇｏｏｄ ｆｏｒ ｙｏｕ. Ｇｏｏｄ ｆｏｒ ｙｏｕ." "Ｔｈｅｙ ｅｖｅｒ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｌｅｔ ｙｏｕ ｏｕｔ?" "Ａｌｌ ｉｎ Ｈｉｓ ｇｏｏｄ ｔｉｍｅ. Ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｗａｙ, ｙｏｕｒ ｓｏｎ ｉｓ ｆｉｎｅ. Ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ ｓｕｆｆｅｒ. Ｈｅ ｄｏｅｓ ｄｒｅａｍ, Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｗａｓ ｒｉｇｈｔ. Ｈｉｓ ｄｒｅａｍｓ ａｒｅ ｍａｄｅ ｏｆ ｍｅｍｏｒｉｅｓ. Ｔｈｅ ｍｅｍｏｒｉｅｓ ｙｏｕ ｇａｖｅ ｈｉｍ. Ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｈａｐｐｙ ｏｎｅｓ, ｔｈａｎｋｓ ｔｏ ｙｏｕ." "Ｗｉｌｌ Ｉ ｅｖｅｒ ｂｅ ａｂｌｅ ｔｏ ｔａｌｋ ｔｏ ｈｉｍ?" "Ｙｏｕ ｄｏ ｉｔ ｅｖｅｒｙ ｄａｙ ｂｕｄｄｙ." "Ｙｅａｈ, ｒｉｇｈｔ." "Ｉ ｋｎｏｗ ｉｔ'ｓ ｈａｒｄ ｔｏ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ, ｂｕｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｉｔ ｉｓ." "Ｉ ｇｕｅｓｓ." "Ｌｉｓｔｅｎ ｔｏ ｍｅ. Ｉ ｋｎｏｗ. Ｉ'ｍ ａｓ ｃｒａｚｙ ａｓ ａ ｐａｃｋ ｏｆ ｒａｂｉｄ ｄｏｇｓ. Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ ｗｈｙ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｔｒｕｓｔ ｍｅ." Ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｃａｒ Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｓａｉｄ, "Ｉ ｈｏｐｅ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｍｉｎｄ." "Ｉ ｄｏｎ'ｔ." "Ｉ ｍｅａｎ Ｉ ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｉｆ ｙｏｕｒ ｈａｄ ａ ｗａｙ ｈｏｍｅ. Ｉ ａｓｋｅｄ ｔｈｅｍ ｈｏｗ ｙｏｕ ｗｅｒｅ ｄｏｉｎｇ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｙ ｓａｉｄ ｙｏｕ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｇｏ ｉｆ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗａｓ ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ, ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ, ｔｏ ｈｅｌｐ ｏｕｔ ａｎｄ Ｉ ｓａｉｄ "Ｍｅ. Ｉ ｔｏｌｄ ｔｈｅｍ ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ｎｏ ｆａｍｉｌｙ, ｔｈａｔ Ｉ'ｍ ａ ｆｒｉｅｎｄ." "Ｙｏｕ ａｒｅ." "Ｉｓ ｔｈｅｒｅ? Ｆａｍｉｌｙ Ｉ ｍｅａｎ?" "Ｊｕｓｔ Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ." "Ｙｅｓ. Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ. Ｗｅ ｎｅｅｄ ｔｏ ｔａｌｋ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈａｔ." "Ｗｈａｔ?" "Ｗｅ'ｒｅ ｎｏｔ ａｌｌ ｆａｋｅｓ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ." Ｔｈｅ ｄａｙ ａｆｔｅｒ ｔｈａｔ ｔｈｅｙ ｇａｔｈｅｒｅｄ ｉｎ Ｒｉｃｈａｒｄ'ｓ ｒｏｏｍ, Ｍａｒｔｉｎ ｌｅａｄｉｎｇ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｉｎ ａｎｄ ｈｅｌｐｉｎｇ ｈｉｍ ｔａｋｅ ａ ｓｅａｔ ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｂｏｙ'ｓ ｂｅｄ. Ｈｅ ｓｔｏｏｄ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｔｈｅｎ, ａｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ'ｓ ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ ａｓ ｔｈｅ ｒｅｓｔ ｓｐｒｅａｄ ｗｏｖｅｎ ｓｔｒａｗ ｍａｔｓ ａｎｄ ｓａｔ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｆｌｏｏｒ. Ｔｈｉｓ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｒ ｗａｓ ａ ｍｉｄｄｌｅ ａｇｅｄ ｗｏｍａｎ, Ａｓｉａｎ ａｎｄ ｄｒｅｓｓｅｄ ｉｎ ｃｅｒｅｍｏｎｉａｌ ｇａｒｂ. Ｓｈｅ ｓａｔ ａ ｓｉｌｖｅｒ ｂｏｗｌ ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ｈｅｒｓｅｌｆ ａｎｄ ｐｕｔ ｒｉｃｅ ｉｎ ｉｔ. Ｔｈｅｎ ｓｈｅ ｓａｔ ｔｈｒｅｅ ｅｇｇｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｒｉｃｅ ａｎｄ ｃｏｎｎｅｃｔｅｄ ｔｈｅ ｅｇｇｓ ｗｉｔｈ ｗｈｉｔｅ ｓｔｒｉｎｇ. Ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ, ｍｅｎ ａｎｄ ｗｏｍｅｎ ｏｎ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｓｔｒａｗ ｍａｔｓ ｄｒｏｎｅｄ ｐｒａｙｅｒｓ ａｎｄ ｔｈｒｅｅ ｍｕｓｉｃｉａｎｓ ｐｌａｙｅｄ, ａ ｄｒｕｍ, ａ ｆｌｕｔｅ ａｎｄ ａｎ ｏｄｄ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｓｔｒｉｎｇｅｄ ｉｎｓｔｒｕｍｅｎｔ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｈａｄ ｎｅｖｅｒ ｓｅｅｎ ｂｅｆｏｒｅ. Ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ, ｔｈｅ ｗｏｍａｎ ｓｗａｙｅｄ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｍｕｓｉｃ. Ａ ｓｈａｒｐ, ｓｉｎｇｌｅ ｗｏｒｄ Ｄｕａｎｅ ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ｋｎｏｗ, ｂｕｔ ｏｂｖｉｏｕｓｌｙ ｍｅａｎｔ ｓｔｏｐ ｏｒ ｎｏ. Ｓｈｅ ｈｅｌｄ ｈｅｒ ｒｉｇｈｔ ｈａｎｄ ｏｕｔ, ｐａｌｍ ｏｕｔ ａｎｄ ｆｉｎｇｅｒｓ ｓｐｒｅａｄ ｉｎ ａ ｓｉｇｎａｌ ｔｏ ｃｅａｓｅ ａｎｄ ｊｕｍｐｅｄ ｔｏ ｈｅｒ ｆｅｅｔ. Ｓｈｅ ｃｒｉｓｓ-ｃｒｏｓｓｅｄ ｔｈｅ ｒｏｏｍ ｉｎ ａ ｓｔａｇｇｅｒｉｎｇ ｓｔａｌｋ, ｐｕｌｌｉｎｇ ｕｐ ｓｈｏｒｔ ｉｎ ｆｒｏｎｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｍｕｓｉｃｉａｎｓ, ｇｌａｒｉｎｇ ａｔ ｔｈｅｍ, ｔｈｅｎ ｒｕｓｈｉｎｇ ｔｏ ａｎ ｅｍｐｔｙ ｃｏｒｎｅｒ ａｎｄ ｌｅａｎｉｎｇ ａｇａｉｎｓｔ ｔｈｅ ｗａｌｌ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｓｈｅ ｓｕｄｄｅｎｌｙ ｗｅｎｔ ｒｉｇｉｄ, ｈｅｒ ｂａｃｋ ａｒｃｅｄ, ｈｅａｄ ｂａｃｋ ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｃｅｉｌｉｎｇ, ｔｈｅｎ ｒｅｌａｘｅｄ. Ｌｅａｎｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｒｅ, ａｇａｉｎｓｔ ｔｈｅ ｗａｌｌ, ｔｈｅ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｒ ｒｏｔａｔｅｄ ｈｅｒ ｎｅｃｋ ａｓ ｉｆ ｉｔ ｗｅｒｅ ｓｔｉｆｆ, ｃｌｏｓｅｄ ｈｅｒ ｅｙｅｓ ａｎｄ ｒｕｂｂｅｄ ｈｅｒ ｈｅａｄ. Ｓｈｅ ｓｐｏｋｅ ｔｈｅｎ ｉｎ ａ ｙｏｕｎｇ ｍａｎ'ｓ ｖｏｉｃｅ ｍｏｕｔｈｉｎｇ ｃｌｅａｒ, ｆｌａｔ ｔｏｎｅｄ ｍｉｄｄｌｅ ｗｅｓｔｅｒｎ Ｅｎｇｌｉｓｈ ｓａｙｉｎｇ, "Ｍａｎ..." Ｔｈｅ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｒ ｓｐｏｋｅ ｔｈｅｎ, ｔｏ ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ ａｓ ｈｅｒ ｅｙｅｓ ｆｅｌｌ ｏｎ ｔｈｅｍ ｓａｙｉｎｇ, "Ｈｉ" ｏｒ "Ｈｅｙ" ｏｒ "Ｈｏｗ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｉｎｇ." Ｔｈｅ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｒ ｗａｖｅｄ ａｔ ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ ａｎｄ ｇｒｉｎｎｅｄ. Ｔｈｅｎ ｓｈｅ ｓｐｏｔｔｅｄ Ｄｕａｎｅ ａｎｄ ｓｔｅｐｐｅｄ ｔｏ ｈｉｍ, ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｉｎｔｏ ｈｉｓ ｅｙｅｓ ａｓ ｔｈｅ ｇｒｉｎ ｄｅｅｐｅｎｅｄ ａｎｄ ｈｅ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｒ ｇｒａｓｐｅｄ ｈｉｓ ｈａｎｄ, ｓａｉｄ, "Ｈｉ ｄａｄ." |
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