The protagonist of this story is a six year old boy. If he heard that last sentence read to him, he would want me to change the word protagonist to hero: fine -- hero it is. However, he has not heard that he is the hero of this story, but is busy moving his stuffies from his bed upstairs to the downstairs sitting room. (He was a hero last week, too, when he saved aforementioned stuffies, first of all Doggie, then Charles the Lamb, from a fire that suddenly erupted during his oatmeal breakfast. The oatmeal, as you may have guessed, had become pasty, and that's when smoke began to roll out from underneath the wingback chair in the adjacent room. It was put out quickly with the help of his beach pail, which just happens to hold endless amounts of seawater. But that was last week, and the stuffies, along with our hero, have long forgotten the excitement of those events.)
Here he is, taking one stair at a time, his face hidden by fluff. It's obvious he's talking, but it's not so obvious what he's saying behind all those animals. "I said," he says to me after he falls onto the couch with his stuffies still in his arms, "that his name is not Doggie." His head is tilted so his eyes have to roll to the side to see me.
"Okay," I say with my hand over my mouth.
"It's Milton," he says with a hard t. He then proceeds with his game.
Now that we have been corrected, the story may resume.
It is true that good stories have good characters, even heroes who bring us some kind of comfort, and I've not had to explain this to our little hero. What does need explaining is that heroes do not always do good things -- at least at the beginnings of stories. In the end, well, that's different. Our particular hero, being six, had a specific kind of trouble he did not keep himself from, but, in the end, we are glad for the thing he did at first. You'll see.
It was naptime, that horror of a time when parents or grandparents or nannies tell us that rest is what we need. We know better. The games are ruined if they have to be stopped at that moment -- and this was the thought of our hero as he settled in next to Milton Doggie and Charles the Lamb. "Yes, I know I can play it again when I get up," he said toward the doorway, "but that changes it. And when I try again later, I can't find it out where I was." You know what he means as well as I.
Well, there he stayed during naptime, at least that's what his parents thought, and when he got up, his pocket had a new bulge in it. For, at one point during his rest, and with full knowledge that such a thing was wrong and dangerous, he had snuck into his father's room and taken a small pocket knife. Now, we can't blame him too much for such a thing, for the thought of that knife would not leave him alone, and now that he'd stolen it we are glad he felt poorly. In fact, when his mother told him he could get up, he made himself lay in his bed another minute or two just because he felt like a criminal.
However, when he passed his father's room, the resolution to return the knife -- which was witnessed by both Milton and Charles with much nodding on their part -- had been swept clean and replaced by a new excitement, an outside excitement, so we must not judge him severely for forgetting.
"You two sit there. Milton, Charles, watch for me -- I'll have something for you when I'm back." He said this, you see, for two reasons: one, he wanted to include his friends in the new adventure, but both of them were forbidden to go outside if they were to be bedtime companions; and two, it was comforting to remember the animals were there when he was out alone. When he was sure they wouldn't hear, he chuckled to himself with a shake of the head and said, "Fluff is all they are. But they don't know that."
Once in the garden, he first had to locate his shovel, for the game he intended to continue was a digging game. The last time he played it he unearthed not only worms, but bits of glass and chunks of concrete. These things lay with a bag of marbles and three pennies, all of which was hidden in a box set neatly behind the unused encyclopedias. He stood at the digging site and smiled at the thought of that sky blue box, which had its own fitted lid, and how he wanted to fill it with more treasures; his round cheeks already glowed with sweat, and his right hand held the shovel so his knuckles stretched the skin taut.
"I won't dig you," he said to the swaying tiger lilies, "you're my friends, too." And this was true. The long leaves that grew up and splashed over like living arches covered him when he got down on his knees, and not only this, but they also shooed the flies and mosquitoes when they shifted in the breeze. Once this pleasantry was exchanged with the flowers, he stuck the shovel in the dirt and grinned at the sound. "Oh, there's things here," he said and scooped out his first load.
While he is occupied with digging, I'll take a moment to tell you about Hawthorn Lane. Of course, you've already been told this particular boy is the hero of this particular lane, but the rest of the story will make more sense if you know about a few of the others who live close by. There are some children a few doors away, but mostly the surrounding houses contain rather well-to-do individuals -- we try not to hold that against them, and we succeed three out of four days.
One neighbor lives by herself across the alley from our hero, and she generally keeps to herself. I will say, however, that I have seen her speaking once or twice to our boy, and she was not able to conceal a smile or two when the interviews were ended. That's certainly to her credit. You should also know that she's the most well-to-do of Hawthorn Lane, and she's also the owner of quite the collection of jewels and gemstones, which she inherited from her father. (Her grandfather made his fortune as an explorer of ancient tombs, which has always been a source of admiration and wonder for our hero -- perhaps this is why he now digs with such conviction. I'll have to ask him.)
Well, you'll be quicker than this neighbor to see what is obvious and simple, which is this: The jewel dealer who's been visiting her every day for a month is a charlatan. He's spun a web around the poor woman, and he intends to lift much of her precious inheritance -- in fact, he intends to do so within this story. You see it, don't you, that large van parked in the alley behind her house? And what else? Our hero's excavation site lies in the flower bed not twenty yards away.
Let's get back to him now, for he's found something.
"Yes," he said. "This is what I was looking for." The shovel lays quietly by the hole, and in his hands he looked at a broken bit of asphalt, which was encrusted with minute pieces of glass. It sparkled in the sunlight. "Yes," he said again. He then began thinking about the blue box and where this find might fit in it, but his thought was broken immediately by the presence of the large van in the alley. Slowly, like the expert spy he became the moment he laid eyes on the strange vehicle, he lowered himself farther into the tiger lilies. "I have to get closer," he whispered. Indeed, any spy worth anything would have known this to be true.
And so, with the asphalt still in his hand, he crept out of the flowers toward the fence. He made surprisingly little noise, and what noise he did make -- his shoes crunching the pea gravel, for instance -- was not enough to be noticed over the incessant barking from the neighborhood watch. "They sense something," he said of the K-9s. "What do we have here?" By now he crouched behind the fence, and the van was but a few feet away. He knew, as children do, that spies make note of things, therefore he also made note of these things: the tires on the van were old and cracked in places, it was muddy, and -- he had to hold his head just right to see this one -- there was rust on the underside. It was this last fact that made him walk toward the van and squat down next to it so as to see how far the rust had got. It was when he'd placed his hand on the bumper and really twisted himself that he dropped the asphalt. He watched it roll out of his reach under the van.
"Now I've done it," he said with a sigh. The treasure hunter in him wanted to immediately retrieve the lost item, but the spy, who had not quite has his full turn, knew one must be careful. He looked up and down the alley. No one. He listened. Voices on the opposite side of the van sounded far off -- far enough to go for it. One last look back at his own house. "Headquarters won't like this," he said. "Milton, Charles, keep a lookout." And with this last instruction, he crawled on his belly under the van. "Got it!" He was so excited to have his treasure back, that he didn't move for some time, yet when he did, he rolled over on his side and felt as though he'd been bitten on the leg. It was a commendable effort that kept him from crying out, and he put his free hand over his own mouth. When the pain subsided, he put his hand in his pocket and discovered the knife. "Oh, no." Treasure hunter and spy retired for the day at this moment, and he shed tears like a regular six year old boy who knows he's in trouble.
I'm sorry to leave him crying there under the van, but what we have to know next is that the owner of said van approached with his own kind of treasure at this point. In fact, just when our hero had resolved to roll out and go confess his descent into the criminal underground, the despicable charlatan hurried to make his getaway.
The back doors of the van opened and our boy froze. He gripped his asphalt-jewel in one hand and the knife in the other. No thought of what to do came to him, so he remained still and listened. Large feet walked around to the driver's side and paused. The driver's door opened. The feet lifted off the ground one at a time. Then he heard a chuckle. It came from the man who just got in the van, our hero knew, and it ignited his curiosity. He scooted over to get a look and was able to catch a small glimpse of a mouth and teeth in the side mirror. The mouth was smiling a smile that did not mean happiness. "No," he whispered in his smallest voice. "That doesn't mean happy at all. It's meanness."
He was right, of course. At this moment two things happened simultaneously: The van started and a cry lifted up from the old woman's side of the alley. "Stop!" It was the boy's neighbor, he knew right away. He looked at the smile, which was now a snarl. His heart plunged into his belly. His fingers squeezed the contents of his hands -- and this gave his mind an idea that was more like a flash of hot electricity than any kind of plan. Without further delay, he worked the knife open, eyed the closest tire, saw a large crack in the rubber where the blade would fit, and drove it in with as much force as he could muster. The dry tire, being very old, was no match; the knife stopped at the handle.
Quickly, our boy rolled a few inches toward the center of the van, for it lurched into gear and began to drive forward. Soon, it was at the edge of the alley about to turn into the street, and in its place, with his mouth wide open, was a six year old boy watching his father's knife go round and round away from him -- never to be found again, he was sure.
He laid his forehead on his arms and wept -- not only had he stolen the knife, now he could not return it. "I'm a robber forever," he said into the dust. And his tears covered his face and dripped off his nose and soaked into the ground.
His neighbor, who had not stopped shouting after the van, found our hero there a few moments later, and she -- to her double credit -- forgot about her jewels when she saw him lying where the van had been. "Oh!" She exclaimed, and she tried to lift him. "What are you doing here? Were you hurt? Did that van hit you?"
And all sorts of other questions erupted from her mouth. Of course, a six year old boy cannot answer so many things at once, especially when all he can think about is his father's knife, so he said, "I was spying and lost the knife." He was sitting up now, streaks of dirt and tears all over his cheeks, and his eyes were on the treasure he'd found earlier.
By and by, our friendly neighbor brought the little hero home. He was dirty, like I said before, but mostly he stewed in disappointment at his loss -- especially at the thought of confessing to his parents, which he knew he must do. That will come out right shortly.
First, what happened to the van. As you already guessed, it did not make it even one more block before it had a very flat tire. This was a source of panic for the thief, who had thought himself in the clear. The old woman, by the way, had already phoned the police; this was why she was so late in her pursuit on foot. And when, in due time, the police fell upon the van and its contents, they not only made an arrest and found the jewels, but also collected a certain pocket knife upon inspection of the flat tire. "My goodness," the officer said as he pulled it out. "What do we have here?"
Much later, when our hero had been bathed and dressed for an early bedtime, the police visited the old neighbor across the alley to return her possessions. They learned here that the knife did not belong to her, and the old woman gasped when she realized what had happened. She explained to them what, or whom, rather, she had found lying in the alley shortly after the van drove away. This story was a source of great wonder to them all. Soon, the police and the old neighbor stood in our hallway, with the knife, and related what they knew to two anxious adults, who happened to be the father and mother of a certain six year old boy.
The story being told, the knife returned, the visitors gone (not without much smiling and head-scratching), the boy now sat, with mother and father, on his own bed and told the whole truth -- naptime theft and all. Milton and Charles, wide-eyed but getting drowsy, listened without comment. We won't hold it against them that they did not speak up for their boy, for, as we know, they are only fluff.
"I was going to put it back," he said. "But I forgot."
We knew he meant to, and we told him so -- and we said this with a kind of relief that only comes from seeing a disaster averted after the fact.
"And I won't do that again."
We assured him that we knew this was true. And we're still glad he felt grief about his theft.
"One last thing," I said. "She wanted you to have this." I handed him a small box wrapped in brown paper tied with a white string.
"Oh," he said upon opening it.
The contents took our breath away.
"It's nice," he said as he lifted the ruby to the lamplight. "I like how you can see through it." He set it down next to his glass of water on the nightstand. "May I have a story?"
We were still looking at the ruby, which was mostly square and similar in size to that of a child's shooting marble. "Oh -- yes," I said and suggested a colorful book on insects and their habitats.
"No. What about this one?" He hefted a large volume from under his pillows, then settled Milton and Charles back in their seats.
"Well," I said, with his mother next to me. "What about bad dreams?"
"Oh. I guess the goblins are scary -- at first." He scooped his stuffies close to him. "But, the story doesn't stay that way -- there's a hero, you know."
Yes, we knew. I suspect you know all about that, too. So we all had the story and were glad for it.
"Would you like to put this somewhere safe," I said, pointing at the ruby.
"No," he said. "May I have the hall light on tonight? Milton said he's thinking of dragons now."
It was on all night.
And so, this story is about at an end but for one more thing: I snuck down to his room a few minutes later because I heard his little feet hit the floor. I didn't go straight in but watched through the cracked door. Our hero was close, right by the bookshelf where the encyclopedias stood like retired soldiers at attention. He reached behind the books and drew out, ever so quietly, the blue box in which I knew he hid his treasures. I felt a pinch at the idea that I was invading his privacy and resolved to go, but then he pulled out his lump of asphalt and I stayed. He looked it over, turning it this way and that. Then, without a sound, he put it all back and climbed into bed.
The smile I'm wearing now as I write this began to grow in that moment, for what did I spy on the nightstand beside his bed? The ruby. It's still there. Yes, this story is aptly named, is it not?
Here he is, taking one stair at a time, his face hidden by fluff. It's obvious he's talking, but it's not so obvious what he's saying behind all those animals. "I said," he says to me after he falls onto the couch with his stuffies still in his arms, "that his name is not Doggie." His head is tilted so his eyes have to roll to the side to see me.
"Okay," I say with my hand over my mouth.
"It's Milton," he says with a hard t. He then proceeds with his game.
Now that we have been corrected, the story may resume.
It is true that good stories have good characters, even heroes who bring us some kind of comfort, and I've not had to explain this to our little hero. What does need explaining is that heroes do not always do good things -- at least at the beginnings of stories. In the end, well, that's different. Our particular hero, being six, had a specific kind of trouble he did not keep himself from, but, in the end, we are glad for the thing he did at first. You'll see.
It was naptime, that horror of a time when parents or grandparents or nannies tell us that rest is what we need. We know better. The games are ruined if they have to be stopped at that moment -- and this was the thought of our hero as he settled in next to Milton Doggie and Charles the Lamb. "Yes, I know I can play it again when I get up," he said toward the doorway, "but that changes it. And when I try again later, I can't find it out where I was." You know what he means as well as I.
Well, there he stayed during naptime, at least that's what his parents thought, and when he got up, his pocket had a new bulge in it. For, at one point during his rest, and with full knowledge that such a thing was wrong and dangerous, he had snuck into his father's room and taken a small pocket knife. Now, we can't blame him too much for such a thing, for the thought of that knife would not leave him alone, and now that he'd stolen it we are glad he felt poorly. In fact, when his mother told him he could get up, he made himself lay in his bed another minute or two just because he felt like a criminal.
However, when he passed his father's room, the resolution to return the knife -- which was witnessed by both Milton and Charles with much nodding on their part -- had been swept clean and replaced by a new excitement, an outside excitement, so we must not judge him severely for forgetting.
"You two sit there. Milton, Charles, watch for me -- I'll have something for you when I'm back." He said this, you see, for two reasons: one, he wanted to include his friends in the new adventure, but both of them were forbidden to go outside if they were to be bedtime companions; and two, it was comforting to remember the animals were there when he was out alone. When he was sure they wouldn't hear, he chuckled to himself with a shake of the head and said, "Fluff is all they are. But they don't know that."
Once in the garden, he first had to locate his shovel, for the game he intended to continue was a digging game. The last time he played it he unearthed not only worms, but bits of glass and chunks of concrete. These things lay with a bag of marbles and three pennies, all of which was hidden in a box set neatly behind the unused encyclopedias. He stood at the digging site and smiled at the thought of that sky blue box, which had its own fitted lid, and how he wanted to fill it with more treasures; his round cheeks already glowed with sweat, and his right hand held the shovel so his knuckles stretched the skin taut.
"I won't dig you," he said to the swaying tiger lilies, "you're my friends, too." And this was true. The long leaves that grew up and splashed over like living arches covered him when he got down on his knees, and not only this, but they also shooed the flies and mosquitoes when they shifted in the breeze. Once this pleasantry was exchanged with the flowers, he stuck the shovel in the dirt and grinned at the sound. "Oh, there's things here," he said and scooped out his first load.
While he is occupied with digging, I'll take a moment to tell you about Hawthorn Lane. Of course, you've already been told this particular boy is the hero of this particular lane, but the rest of the story will make more sense if you know about a few of the others who live close by. There are some children a few doors away, but mostly the surrounding houses contain rather well-to-do individuals -- we try not to hold that against them, and we succeed three out of four days.
One neighbor lives by herself across the alley from our hero, and she generally keeps to herself. I will say, however, that I have seen her speaking once or twice to our boy, and she was not able to conceal a smile or two when the interviews were ended. That's certainly to her credit. You should also know that she's the most well-to-do of Hawthorn Lane, and she's also the owner of quite the collection of jewels and gemstones, which she inherited from her father. (Her grandfather made his fortune as an explorer of ancient tombs, which has always been a source of admiration and wonder for our hero -- perhaps this is why he now digs with such conviction. I'll have to ask him.)
Well, you'll be quicker than this neighbor to see what is obvious and simple, which is this: The jewel dealer who's been visiting her every day for a month is a charlatan. He's spun a web around the poor woman, and he intends to lift much of her precious inheritance -- in fact, he intends to do so within this story. You see it, don't you, that large van parked in the alley behind her house? And what else? Our hero's excavation site lies in the flower bed not twenty yards away.
Let's get back to him now, for he's found something.
"Yes," he said. "This is what I was looking for." The shovel lays quietly by the hole, and in his hands he looked at a broken bit of asphalt, which was encrusted with minute pieces of glass. It sparkled in the sunlight. "Yes," he said again. He then began thinking about the blue box and where this find might fit in it, but his thought was broken immediately by the presence of the large van in the alley. Slowly, like the expert spy he became the moment he laid eyes on the strange vehicle, he lowered himself farther into the tiger lilies. "I have to get closer," he whispered. Indeed, any spy worth anything would have known this to be true.
And so, with the asphalt still in his hand, he crept out of the flowers toward the fence. He made surprisingly little noise, and what noise he did make -- his shoes crunching the pea gravel, for instance -- was not enough to be noticed over the incessant barking from the neighborhood watch. "They sense something," he said of the K-9s. "What do we have here?" By now he crouched behind the fence, and the van was but a few feet away. He knew, as children do, that spies make note of things, therefore he also made note of these things: the tires on the van were old and cracked in places, it was muddy, and -- he had to hold his head just right to see this one -- there was rust on the underside. It was this last fact that made him walk toward the van and squat down next to it so as to see how far the rust had got. It was when he'd placed his hand on the bumper and really twisted himself that he dropped the asphalt. He watched it roll out of his reach under the van.
"Now I've done it," he said with a sigh. The treasure hunter in him wanted to immediately retrieve the lost item, but the spy, who had not quite has his full turn, knew one must be careful. He looked up and down the alley. No one. He listened. Voices on the opposite side of the van sounded far off -- far enough to go for it. One last look back at his own house. "Headquarters won't like this," he said. "Milton, Charles, keep a lookout." And with this last instruction, he crawled on his belly under the van. "Got it!" He was so excited to have his treasure back, that he didn't move for some time, yet when he did, he rolled over on his side and felt as though he'd been bitten on the leg. It was a commendable effort that kept him from crying out, and he put his free hand over his own mouth. When the pain subsided, he put his hand in his pocket and discovered the knife. "Oh, no." Treasure hunter and spy retired for the day at this moment, and he shed tears like a regular six year old boy who knows he's in trouble.
I'm sorry to leave him crying there under the van, but what we have to know next is that the owner of said van approached with his own kind of treasure at this point. In fact, just when our hero had resolved to roll out and go confess his descent into the criminal underground, the despicable charlatan hurried to make his getaway.
The back doors of the van opened and our boy froze. He gripped his asphalt-jewel in one hand and the knife in the other. No thought of what to do came to him, so he remained still and listened. Large feet walked around to the driver's side and paused. The driver's door opened. The feet lifted off the ground one at a time. Then he heard a chuckle. It came from the man who just got in the van, our hero knew, and it ignited his curiosity. He scooted over to get a look and was able to catch a small glimpse of a mouth and teeth in the side mirror. The mouth was smiling a smile that did not mean happiness. "No," he whispered in his smallest voice. "That doesn't mean happy at all. It's meanness."
He was right, of course. At this moment two things happened simultaneously: The van started and a cry lifted up from the old woman's side of the alley. "Stop!" It was the boy's neighbor, he knew right away. He looked at the smile, which was now a snarl. His heart plunged into his belly. His fingers squeezed the contents of his hands -- and this gave his mind an idea that was more like a flash of hot electricity than any kind of plan. Without further delay, he worked the knife open, eyed the closest tire, saw a large crack in the rubber where the blade would fit, and drove it in with as much force as he could muster. The dry tire, being very old, was no match; the knife stopped at the handle.
Quickly, our boy rolled a few inches toward the center of the van, for it lurched into gear and began to drive forward. Soon, it was at the edge of the alley about to turn into the street, and in its place, with his mouth wide open, was a six year old boy watching his father's knife go round and round away from him -- never to be found again, he was sure.
He laid his forehead on his arms and wept -- not only had he stolen the knife, now he could not return it. "I'm a robber forever," he said into the dust. And his tears covered his face and dripped off his nose and soaked into the ground.
His neighbor, who had not stopped shouting after the van, found our hero there a few moments later, and she -- to her double credit -- forgot about her jewels when she saw him lying where the van had been. "Oh!" She exclaimed, and she tried to lift him. "What are you doing here? Were you hurt? Did that van hit you?"
And all sorts of other questions erupted from her mouth. Of course, a six year old boy cannot answer so many things at once, especially when all he can think about is his father's knife, so he said, "I was spying and lost the knife." He was sitting up now, streaks of dirt and tears all over his cheeks, and his eyes were on the treasure he'd found earlier.
By and by, our friendly neighbor brought the little hero home. He was dirty, like I said before, but mostly he stewed in disappointment at his loss -- especially at the thought of confessing to his parents, which he knew he must do. That will come out right shortly.
First, what happened to the van. As you already guessed, it did not make it even one more block before it had a very flat tire. This was a source of panic for the thief, who had thought himself in the clear. The old woman, by the way, had already phoned the police; this was why she was so late in her pursuit on foot. And when, in due time, the police fell upon the van and its contents, they not only made an arrest and found the jewels, but also collected a certain pocket knife upon inspection of the flat tire. "My goodness," the officer said as he pulled it out. "What do we have here?"
Much later, when our hero had been bathed and dressed for an early bedtime, the police visited the old neighbor across the alley to return her possessions. They learned here that the knife did not belong to her, and the old woman gasped when she realized what had happened. She explained to them what, or whom, rather, she had found lying in the alley shortly after the van drove away. This story was a source of great wonder to them all. Soon, the police and the old neighbor stood in our hallway, with the knife, and related what they knew to two anxious adults, who happened to be the father and mother of a certain six year old boy.
The story being told, the knife returned, the visitors gone (not without much smiling and head-scratching), the boy now sat, with mother and father, on his own bed and told the whole truth -- naptime theft and all. Milton and Charles, wide-eyed but getting drowsy, listened without comment. We won't hold it against them that they did not speak up for their boy, for, as we know, they are only fluff.
"I was going to put it back," he said. "But I forgot."
We knew he meant to, and we told him so -- and we said this with a kind of relief that only comes from seeing a disaster averted after the fact.
"And I won't do that again."
We assured him that we knew this was true. And we're still glad he felt grief about his theft.
"One last thing," I said. "She wanted you to have this." I handed him a small box wrapped in brown paper tied with a white string.
"Oh," he said upon opening it.
The contents took our breath away.
"It's nice," he said as he lifted the ruby to the lamplight. "I like how you can see through it." He set it down next to his glass of water on the nightstand. "May I have a story?"
We were still looking at the ruby, which was mostly square and similar in size to that of a child's shooting marble. "Oh -- yes," I said and suggested a colorful book on insects and their habitats.
"No. What about this one?" He hefted a large volume from under his pillows, then settled Milton and Charles back in their seats.
"Well," I said, with his mother next to me. "What about bad dreams?"
"Oh. I guess the goblins are scary -- at first." He scooped his stuffies close to him. "But, the story doesn't stay that way -- there's a hero, you know."
Yes, we knew. I suspect you know all about that, too. So we all had the story and were glad for it.
"Would you like to put this somewhere safe," I said, pointing at the ruby.
"No," he said. "May I have the hall light on tonight? Milton said he's thinking of dragons now."
It was on all night.
And so, this story is about at an end but for one more thing: I snuck down to his room a few minutes later because I heard his little feet hit the floor. I didn't go straight in but watched through the cracked door. Our hero was close, right by the bookshelf where the encyclopedias stood like retired soldiers at attention. He reached behind the books and drew out, ever so quietly, the blue box in which I knew he hid his treasures. I felt a pinch at the idea that I was invading his privacy and resolved to go, but then he pulled out his lump of asphalt and I stayed. He looked it over, turning it this way and that. Then, without a sound, he put it all back and climbed into bed.
The smile I'm wearing now as I write this began to grow in that moment, for what did I spy on the nightstand beside his bed? The ruby. It's still there. Yes, this story is aptly named, is it not?
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