I’m sorry, George,
I reply.
I didn’t know. I wish
I could fight them
for
you.
They would slash
you to
ribbons,
he says. You, who
can’t shout, who
runs in slow
motion,
who can’t dial a
phone, or remember
our mission.
I wish you were
interested in
our mission.
I have to stay here
until
you set it in
motion.
That isn’t going to
happen, I tell him.
Are you or aren’t
you
my friend?
Friend, he repeats,
sounding surprised. Why
would I be your
friend? What would the
point be in that?
We have a war to
fight,
and I am your weapon.
The boys are nice
enough, and I could do without
the dolls and their
knives, and sometimes
my thoughts echo.
But there is no love
here.
Look somewhere else
for it.
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