“George, I’m sorry! I never meant for anything b-b-b-bad to huh-huh-happen!” Perhaps there was something else to say, but he could not say it. He was sobbing then, lying on his back with one arm over his eyes, remembering the boat, remembering the steady beat of the rain against his bedroom windows, remembering the medicines and the tissues on the nighttable, the faint ache of fever in his head and in his body, remembering George, most of all that: remembering George, George in his yellow hooded slicker. “George, I’m sorry!” he cried through his tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I’m
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