one who has a past of miles and far nations and injury and struggle, of which I know little or nothing. Who despite his best efforts, is now put at risk because someone across an ocean rolled false dice. And some have been shattered by old hurts, but we’ve no idea how they formed. And some keep their distance and their mystery, despite writing names on keys. And betimes the very streets of home, i.e., St. Crispian’s, usually charming and whimsical and fallible in the most lovely way, begin to feel cramped, small, and smudged. And there isn’t any other place one would wish to live, which makes
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