I thought I might say yes.
“Kenton Hill!” came the call. “Lavnonshire!”
Patrick cursed. He picked up the hands laying limply by my sides, and I felt cool glass press against either palm. His blue eyes, now afraid, were still astonishing. You’ve got a mind of your own, he reminded me. Don’t let those fuckers take it.
Then he leaned down, pressed his lips briefly against my cheek, then walked through those double doors the way a man walks to the gallows.
He turned to look back at me once, mouth quirking upward awkwardly and then falling. He looked brimming with things to say but pressed his lips tightly closed. All the weight of Belavere Trench held in the mouth of a miner’s boy.
Thus, Patrick Colson was gone, and I believed I would never see him again.
The children of Scurry and Somme
