“Goodbye, Freddy,” I whispered. I hoped he found some kind of happiness in his new life, but I doubted he would. When I pictured him in a duplex with a wife and a screaming baby, I imagined him sneaking away to spend his time at some gin joint, sitting next to a girl who looked like a poor imitation of me. But he had made his bed. And I had my own to make, unmake, and make again without him in it.
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