“Are you sad?” the boy asked. “I was a child once”, the old man breathed. “I made beautiful things. I made poems.” “You can make some more”, the boy answered, as if that were a simple thing, comforting and encouraging as if he were the adult and Maurice the child. “You don’t know. You don’t understand. You don’t know the things I’ve done!” he murmured in a tone of self-loathing. “My father says you can start over. You can ask it.” “It’s too late!” “No, it’s not.” “It is! It is!” He looked at the boy. “I killed . . . I killed your . . .” Arrow looked down at his hands as if he did not recognize
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