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...blood. “I will not be swallowed up by you, I fought for you, I fought for your freedom, what’s wrong, what’s wrong with this age!” he exclaimed. The boy was on the floor, blood leaking across the floor of the train. He wept for his mother, and Cathcart saw how young he was, and suddenly he saw how young each of them was. He quietly asked for his items back, and the boys consented without a word, shrinking away reproachfully. He stood until the next stop, until he left the train, feeling very old.

His hands grasped around the silver cross on his neck. He walked the full mile back to his house. As he went to lie down, he found an envelope enclosed inside of his mailbox. His son had finally written to him. He left a return address. Cathcart’s hands trembled around the silver cross around his neck, and cracked a smile.

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