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The sidewalk on 42nd wasn’t especially crowded for an early spring Sunday in New York. The well-dressed old man walked freely between passing pedestrians, jauntily swinging his cane, the cane he told everyone he needed for the war wound he had never received. He whistled a soft tune to himself, something from a bygone part of his life, a period he hated to look back on but wouldn’t leave his memories…
…It was then, at the very instant the old man was beginning to forgive her for making him angry, that a young woman stepped out in front of him. She was wearing a nondescript dirty and threadbare blue farmer’s bib-overall, a dirty old cap and her left arm was in a sling. He noticed, looking her up and down, familiar scuffed red shoes… those familiar scuffed red shoes. He was surprised and stopped walking, amazed at the sudden familiarity of her small, sweet face. He opened his mouth to speak, maybe even daring to be impolite and ask if she was related to… but he never had the chance to speak. The girl pulled a small pistol from the sling with her free arm and levelled it at him. Too late, he realised who she was.
Copyright © Tom Kane 2020