At that moment, Ginger began to repeat her hymn, stroking this stinging concoction into the messy marrow of Fortune’s wounds. It was all he could do to contain the deep pain of this treatment, reasoning it would make him whole again. As time progressed, he was fortunate to see life unfold once again before weary eyes.
“Is the hurting going away son?” asked Ginger eagerly.
“A little,” came back a barely audible reply.
Hearing his response, a reflective Ginger pondered aloud. “Is it the water that makes them be so cruel? I often wonder Fortune. Do they drink in that deep dank river and keep on drinking bitterness?
“They stroll around in their finery. They ride in nice carriages past rows of shacks, of people living in dirt, and pay no heed. They must be heartless, ‘cause only an animal w
