![]() Then Gideon would have to tell the truth, not that he was any of those things, but that he was more lonesome inside than any boy his age should be. Holding still was the hardest part, not because his mother was dead and had no answer, but because Gideon knew that if he moved at all, his father might ask if he was awake or sad or equally lost. Gideon thought it was pitiful, the helplessness and tears, the shaking, dirty fingers. For long minutes he stood silently, looking down then he touched Gideon’s hair and tried to whisper himself strong, saying, Please, God, please, then asking strength from his long-dead wife, so that Please, God turned into Help me, Julia. But Gideon knew what his father would say and so kept his head on the pillow and watched the dark corner until his father pulled himself up and crossed the room. It would be a simple question, and if his father were any kind of man, he’d probably answer it. His father often ended up in the corner-huddled as if his son’s bedroom were the world’s last good place-and Gideon thought about asking why, after all these years, his father was still so sad and weak and broken. ![]() ![]() He held very still, though the sobbing was neither new nor unexpected. ![]() ![]() Gideon Strange opened his eyes to dark and heat and the sound of his father weeping. ![]()
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