Two men of similar height and build walk along a path in the woods. Judging by the backs of their heads with the sticking-up hair, Jason is one of them, and his Uncle Peter the other. It’s a lovely quiet dawn, barely light out. Birds are twittering; small creatures scamper here and there. The men find a log to sit on. Peter passes his nephew a Hector’s Nectar before he opens his own.
“Got to stop blaming yourself, Jas,” Peter says. “What’s done is done, and you can’t undo it.”
“I know that. Only too well,” Jason responds. There’s a catch in the young man’s voice. “If only I could. Live it all over again, maybe it would have—”
“Hush, now, lad,” his uncle soothes. “You will find your peace with it when it’s—”
“Time, I know, Uncle Pete,” his nephew cuts him off. “So the angels keep tellin
