But I can see every detail . . . And I can see beneath the details . . . I see not only his face now but the face he once wore, when we were fourteen, just boys. And on that young boy’s face, I see the future, although what I cannot see is his fate, and mine. What I see instead are hope, idealism, love, brotherhood, sincerity, and pain as he slices his palm and swears his oath. To us. I can still feel the stickiness and the slipperiness of his blood on my stinging palm, mingling with my blood as we grasp each other’s hands and become one. Oh, God! My God . . . forgive me. Those were the days
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