“I understand pain. I understand suffering. I understand the human cost.” Now he looked up, straight at Croker, with a gaze that bespoke the utmost sincerity. “I’ve been there. I was in the war … I lost four fingers …” With that he raised his right fist above his head as high as it would go, with the back of his hand twisted toward Croker, so that it looked like a stump of a hand with only the ridges of the four big knuckles remaining. Then he extended a single finger upward, his middle finger, and kept it that way, a look of quizzical sadness on his face. “Sell it,” he said.
