I dropped the shoe into the quenching bucket. I had come to like the sound and the steam. I pounded it some more, the strikes reverberating through my arm and body, before sticking it back into the fire. “Heating and cooling it like that will harden the steel,” Easter said. “Metaphor,” I said. “That’s nearly all we have,” Easter said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the pencil, showed it to Easter. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Young George stole it for me,” I said. “You can write.” It was not a question or an accusation, more a discovery, perhaps a call to duty. “I can write,” I
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