Book3:WereMyDreamIs

epairofcoldeyes.

    12

    Thesad,weather-beatenfacedeeplyetchedwithwrinklesofDimitri’soldfriendDavid,whowasalreadygettingoninage,hadseldombeenhappy.Hepulledapsticbagoutofabrokenpaperboxandtookoutatatteredanddirtybwhichhespreadonthegrouhehebrokenpaperboxatooshelterhisheadsomewhatfromtheightwind.Therehadbeenafierbattleherenotsolongago,wheregangmembersonbothsidesgaveuptheirlives,somostpeoplechoseotherroutesandgavethepceawideberth.ButDavidcravedsolitudeandchosetospendthenighthere.Hestoopedbytheroadsideslowlysmokinghiscigarettebutt,itsdimlightbrighteninganddimming,heaskedhimself,

    “AmIreallyold?Mylegsarenolongerasnimbleandagileastheyusedtobeandmybackbothersmeallthetime.Thenightisstillyoun