“You are like me,” David whispered with no small amount of awe. “My parents…” His bottom lip wobbled. “I don’t really remember Dad, but Mom, she smelled like cinnamon. And she would sing to me.” He blinked rapidly, little ice crystals forming around his eyes. “I can still remember the last thing she told me.” “Do you?” Arthur asked. “That must be a treasured memory.” With haunted eyes, David said, “No, it’s not. She told me to run.”
