Grasping it firmly with both hands, he quickly wrenched if from the stones in which it was mortised, and leapt to the ground. “You know, my mom caught me smoking once with Missy. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bedside, watching over him with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a blood-stained cloth bound across his brow.
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