Frank arrived at the depot next morning at a few minutes before seven. He nodded to the guard in the tower who, by remote control, opened the door for him. When he entered the building he saw a knot of people in front of George Well's office at the far end of the building. As he approached, Wells stopped talking and all four men were obviously watching Frank. He waved his left hand lazily toward them and turned right into the locker room to fetch his equipment.

"I wonder what they're up to," he wondered as he strapped on his holster. The four men comprised what Frank often referred to as "the rat patrol." The three guards, all part-time employees, were George Wells' favourites, the men most likely to be assigned overnight trips out of town, air courier assignments, and other jobs which paid the lucrative four hour minimum for an hour or two of work. Reeves and Kowalski were frustrated, would-be policemen, and would probably have realized their boy-hood ambition to wear a police badge had not the police profession recently added psychological testing and a rigorous interview conducted by a professional interviewer, to their recruitment process. They had discovered through experience that those with a burning desire to wear a police uniform and a gun didn't always make the kind of officer they were looking for. The guard service, on the other hand, was slower to realize this.

The third person in the group was a huge slow-speaking, simple fellow named Chenier, a military type still active as an army reservist at age thirty. He had joined while still a boy in high school and at work he always wore hob-nailed, spit-shone combat boots, and the military style cap was carefully shaped and blocked. His eyes had a vacant starey look to them and took on a concentrated expression as he marched about the place to perform his duties, setting his boots down in sharp even steps, and swinging his arms in perfect time with the clatter of metal cleats. Frank thought Chenier was possibly dangerous.

These three men were frequently in company with the branch manager and were seen entering or leaving his office, for they discussed the job interminably, and were privy to information that, while not technically confidential, or privileged to the branch manager's position, was not known to company employees as a general rule. This gave them the belief that they were in an inner circle with management and "in the know" regarding company policy matters. In turn they relayed information and opinions about other employees to Wells. The four men were friends off the job as well; were on first-name basis with each other's wives and formed a familiar group at social functions, such as the Christmas party. On Tuesday afternoons they were invariably present for the weekly firing practice at the company pistol range. Afterward they could be seen holding court over coffee in the lunchroom; each of the guards directing his comments to George, and the three listening reverentially as he expounded on an article he had read in the company news bulletin, or as he examined some upcoming change in procedure. The four looked so uniformly alike it was remarkable. Each wore his hair cut in the military style, with very little hair showing below where the cap-band would normally sit. Their heads made Frank think of white side-wall tires when he saw the four of them seated at the table. The thick-soled, round-toed police boots were polished to a bright gleam and each took pains to see that his uniform was immaculate, creases razor sharp, cap brims and badges lustrous. Wells believed that these three were an inspiration to others and a credit to the service.

George had himself been a military officer, actually a paymaster in the army, until he resigned his commission at the end of a twenty year career, took his pension, and began a new occupation as a driver at one of the Toronto branches. This had been a perfunctory step toward management however, and he had been promoted to assistant manager eight months later. Within two years he had been assigned to the local office as manager. He continued to look very much a military figure, though now somewhat overweight, his hair was closely cropped, his complexion florid, his eyes round and piggy. He wore a military mustache too, narrow and neatly trimmed. In fact the only one of the four whose face wasn't adorned with one of these hairy affectations was Chenier. Frank often suggested that this was because his wife wouldn't let him handle sharp objects, so he couldn't keep it trimmed.

As Frank left the locker room he heard the group sniggering, no doubt over some clever remark Wells had made, and he turned sharply left to avoid meeting them. He proceeded toward the truck docking area and as he passed the dispatch office he stopped in to greet Claude. François was seated inside and Claude was talking to him in a serious manner. As Frank entered he switched effortlessly in mid-sentence from his native Quebecois to English. The two turned to face him and Frank raised his eyebrows questioningly in return.

"I was just telling François here, we had a little shoving match here yesterday afternoon, Frank."

"Oh, what's up?"

"You know the new guy, Tom, that you had on Monday? Wells told him he wanted to see him at pistol practice to 'give him a few pointers'", he made quotation marks in the air as he cited the manager. "Anyway, the kid shows up; he's got a haircut. I should say, his hair has been cut, but it's still plenty long, he just had it kind of neatened up. Chenier spots him, and starts giving him a hard time."

"Is this downstairs in the range?" interjected Frank.

"No, right there in the lunch room; the kid went in when they were having one of their little meetings, and wanted someone to get him a gun from the armoury. I guess Chenier hadn't seen him before, and started right in on his hair. Called him a hippy, and asked him why didn't he go down the road to work for the competition, since they hire hippies and winos. The kid tried to make a pretty good defense of himself, but Chenier kept overtalking him, you know how he is, and Wells and his pals weren't doing anything to help, just kind of enjoying it. By this time you could hear them all over the building, and Chenier's up and poking the kid in the chest, who finally tells him to fuck off and gives him a shove, knocking him over a bench on his ass. That's when Reeves and Kowalski jumped up and put a stop to it."

"Good thing; I wouldn't want to mess with Chenier. You probably couldn't stop him with a bat."

"Maybe so Frank, but McDermott wasn't backing down any."

The office was silent a moment as Frank digested this news item. At that moment George Wells appeared in the doorway.

"Good morning gentlemen," his tone mellifluous. His face took on a deprecatory expression; he turned patronizingly to Frank. "Frank, I've decided to assign you that new man, what's his name?"

"Tom," replied Frank flatly, knowing Wells preferred to address third persons by their family name as a rule.

"Oh yes, McDermott. He'll be your guard on a permanent basis for the next four months, until he returns to university. I think you'll find you two have a lot in common." Before Frank could reply he turned on his heel and left the office.

Frank adopted a sly grin and winked at the other two. Things were working out rather well.

Tom McDermott was standing by the truck loading dock talking to one of the vault clerks and watched his new partners approaching. He hadn't been informed yet of the news and believed his job was still on the line as a result of yesterday's events. He had realized right away that Chenier must be one of Well's sycophants, but that had not deterred him. Now of course he had had time to think about it: he really couldn't afford to lose this job; it was too late to find another summer placement, and the future of his education might well hang in the balance. He had brought along his civvies this morning in a paper bag, in case he was ordered, or otherwise decided, to turn in his uniform.

"Hi, Frank, François. Guess you heard about yesterday," he began solemnly.

"We sure did," said Frank in a serious tone, his expression dead-pan, "And I have some bad news for you."

The younger man's expression drooped at these words.

"You're going to have to spend the summer working with us!" Frank grinned.

Tom allowed his knees to buckle in an expression of exaggerated relief, then recovered quickly. "This is great," he said animatedly, "I wasn't even sure I still had a job, now I'm getting the exact assignment I wanted." Then more soberly he added, "You know, a regular shift with dependable hours."

"We know Tom," the driver said kindly in his heavy accent, "We're glad to have you too. But were not going to advertise that. We're being punished!" he ended archly.

The three men began the day's work in high spirits. The truck was quickly loaded and they soon found themselves beyond the morning city traffic and on the open highway, headed once more up the valley. When they approached their usual coffee stop Francois wheeled the heavy truck into the parking lot and shut it off.

"I want you to take François' place in the cab Tom," Frank explained as they opened the rear door, "then in a little while one of us will relieve you so you can come in for your coffee," then, "we're really making good time this morning; thirty-five minutes to kill."

Frank stretched as he stepped down, and waited for the two men to exchange places. He and François entered the busy restaurant, dropped their caps on the counter in front of two empty stools and continued toward the washroom. When they returned they were greeted, to Frank's surprise, by his favourite waitress. She beamed down upon him as they seated themselves.

"Hi, I thought you were no longer with us."

She screwed up her face in mock confusion. "What?"

"We came in on Monday and you weren't here. I thought maybe you had quit."

"No, I was here. I had to come in late." Without taking an order she filled two cups with steaming coffee from one of three machines spaced out along the long counter.

"You guys are here early today."

"Yeah … and we have a new man." Frank began to smile slyly at the pretty waitress, "a young guy, college boy … with long hair." François grinned now also.

"Well, things are looking up around here," she replied trying to sound coy and sexy at the same time. She turned to serve other customers with a throaty laugh.

The two men quietly discussed their day off. Francois and his wife Gabrielle had spent all of Tuesday opening their "camp" for the summer. They had maintained, for many years, a lake-front cottage in the Laurentians where they hoped to retire one day. He now outlined for Frank his plans for the summer, a short list of improvements to be completed this season on the property. For these projects François enlisted the support and assistance of various members of his large family, so that the cottage was filled most weekends with siblings, inlaws, children and grandchildren, so much indeed that it was Gabrielle's job during summer to arrange accommodation, and pre-plan visits in order to avoid overcrowding, while still organizing François' construction helpers. Frank had been to the camp a number of times, once he had taken his family there on Sunday to a barbecue, and other times he had assisted on a Tuesday with some project or other. It was always a pleasure for Frank, to be asked to help out that way; it meant an outing to the Laurentians and always a warm welcome and a hearty home-cooked meal.

The two men sat in silence, as they often did, and Frank remembered the springtime fifteen years ago, when François' father had obtained a land severance and had given to each of his children a lakefront lot from the family farm. He had then sold the remainder of the land with the buildings and moved his aged and ailing wife to town. In order to travel to the lake François had bought an old four-door sedan, with a reliable drive-train, but suffering badly from what Frank had called "road cancer". The two men had spotted it during their work day, the car had been scrubbed up and placed on the lawn of a corner residential lot, so that it attracted attention from both streets. A large sign on the windshield stated simply, $100. François rapped loudly on the window between them and pointed excitedly toward the curb, then he stopped the truck and the two men looked it over.

Upon close inspection the ten year old vehicle didn't look like such a bargain. Along the bottoms of the rear fenders, where the mud and salt splashed up from the wheels, there were long torn rusty holes leading directly into the trunk. The front fenders bore similar evidence of age. Frank opened the driver's door and reached under it, pressing upward into the door bottom with his fingers. The bottoms of the doors were rotten too. He opened the rear door and placed his foot on the floor behind the driver's seat. Grasping the roofline at the door opening he swung up onto this foot, placing all his weight directly on the floor. A sickening crunch could be heard from where François stood watching. The carpet under Frank's foot gave away beneath his weight.

"Floor's gone too," he muttered, as to himself.

"What do you think Frank?" François asked comically, "Too much money?"

"No, it's okay. These were good cars, you still see lots of them on the road. It's the salt makes them look bad. Don't forget, in Eastern Ontario the salt destroys bridges and parking garages. What chance does an old car have? But we can fix it. Won't cost too much either."

The two men returned after work that day, test drove the car and then François paid cash for it, counting the bills carefully out of his worn leather wallet. He drove the car home and parked it in the alley behind the dry cleaning store, which was beneath the apartment occupied by the family of six. They began immediately, jacking the car up and placing it on cement blocks and pieces of board until it sat high enough to be able to work on the lower parts comfortably. Gabrielle sat on the wooden steps, chewing her lower lip anxiously as the two found increasingly more damage to be repaired. Everywhere they probed what appeared to be scaly rust, the hammer or screwdriver created another hole. She said nothing, but the worried expression in her eyes betrayed her belief that François had wasted his money.

Next morning, before the couple had finished breakfast, Frank showed up with what tools he owned and several more than he had borrowed, ready to start to work. He and François began by removing the seats from the derelict, an easier job than anticipated, for the rear bench merely popped out, first the seat and then the backrest, and the front seat, though attached to the floor, had proved to be no match for François' powerful forearms. Once he had the wrench securely fastened to the rusted bolts they had twisted and broken readily enough. The seats thus out of the way, the carpets were then pulled out onto the ground. They stared in disbelief at the gaping holes that opened up before them. The entire area from just behind the foot pedals to where the rear seat would normally begin was a mass of wet, brown, thick, loose scale. As François pushed at it with his fingers, more of it fell away, crumbing to his touch and landing with a dead clatter on the earth beneath the car. The raised crown along the centre of the compartment which covered the drive-shaft was solid, but the passenger side of the floor was almost a mirror image of the mess the discouraged pair were presently examining.

"It's no use Frank," the big man said, dejected. "We can't fix that. I should never have bought it."

Frank was inclined to agree with him; he had believed, with reckless enthusiasm, that they would be finished quickly. Now however, the obstacles appeared insurmountable. What could two men with no experience, and a few basic household tools, do with such a mess? He sat down in the doorway of the vehicle and said nothing for a long time while François smoked a cigarette in disgust. If only he hadn't encouraged François to buy the damned thing, they wouldn't be in this fix. The car couldn't even be moved in its present state, for if they put what they could of it back together, the police would take it off the road in two minutes. Unable to speak of it, Frank got up and carried the seat into a patch of sunlight along the brick wall opposite, then he picked up the heavy piece of carpet and laid it over the backrest, inside out so that the sun might dry it.

"Forget it Frank," .. this time his voice was raised somewhat, insistent. "I'm going to call the wrecker."

Frank wavered. The old car would take a lot of time, and Diane had already expressed her opinion of him donating his efforts to this project. Should he defer to the older man's decision, or press ahead, insisting on throwing good money after bad? This option exerted a strong pull; he felt responsible for the present situation. He began cautiously.

"You're right, it's bad, but the worst of it is the floor and the trunk, right? The other holes are smaller, and we already knew about them. But when you think about it, the floor and trunk are the easiest; they're flat surfaces and you can't see them anyhow once we're done. We'll go get some tin, and some rivets and roofing cement and stuff and we'll try and finish that much today. After that the rest won't seem so bad."

François appeared unconvinced. Frank knew he was thinking about the magnitude of the help being offered, and he was reluctant to accept. "Come on," he said as he walked briskly to his own car, "the sooner we get that stuff and get started the better. We're not going to let it defeat us."

François said nothing, but he fell in beside him. The two men worked together, their torsos inside the old vehicle all that day, hammering and shaping the galvanized steel until it was pressed close enough to what remained of the floor to take a rivet. They spoke seldom, quietly murmuring instructions to one another from time to time, drilling holes, pushing and pressing in unison to complete the many difficult joints, cutting the metal where it was reluctant to form the necessary shape and then sometimes applying a second patch over such openings to complete the repair.

By supper time their faces and forearms were orange, their hair caked with the heavy metallic dust and their hands stained with tar, but the job was complete. The floors and trunk were mended and had been coated with thick coats of roofing tar, so that the patchwork job was no longer visible. The big Frenchman put his arm around Frank's shoulders and squeezed him hard, then slapped his back twice. He turned away then, ran up the steps to the apartment door where he quickly reappeared with two sweaty cold quarts of beer. Before he had reached the ground the door re-opened and Gabrielle, a heavy towel around her shoulders, descended with a large pan of hot soapy water. The two men stripped to the waist and laughed at the accumulation of dirt, now made more visible by contrast lines where sleeves and collars had protected them. When they had washed most of it off and Frank was wearing one of François' old uniform shirts, they sat on the steps sipping their beer.

"You know Frank, I never thought we could fix that. It's a big job you're helping me with here." His eyes shone with the emotion of what he was trying to say.

"Don't worry about it, I'll need a hand too, someday. Do you think you and your young lad could go ahead with the rest of the patching up? Then I'll come over on Sunday and we'll finish it off. We can make up a list of materials at work tomorrow." Frank rose to go.

"Okay, … Frank you aren't going now, Gabie has supper all ready. You have to stay for supper!"

The younger man hesitated. "I better call Diane and let her know."

The two climbed the wooden staircase and entered the kitchen. Frank went immediately to the telephone on the wall and dialed.

"Hi, I'm still at François."

Silence.

Frank froze, then attempted to sound as though they were having a conversation. After a pause he continued. "I'm going to stay here for supper. Gabrielle has it all ready."

"Fine," the instrument crackled sharply, followed by a loud click and the grim finality of the dial tone.

Frank hesitated a moment, then replaced the receiver on its hook. He turned to find the couple watching him, looking concerned.

"Is everything all right Frank?"

"Oh sure, everything is fine," but he felt the tell-tale flush as his reddening ears and cheeks betrayed his discomfiture, and from that moment François knew of his young friend's problem, and Frank knew that he knew.

When he returned early Sunday morning he went first-off to the old car to inspect the work that had been going on in his absence. The carpeting and seats had been reinstalled, and François and his son had completed the riveting of patches over the holes and had ground the entire work area with sandpaper disks and an electric drill so that the car was now ready for filler. Frank opened the trunk and found a cardboard box filled with supplies. He lifted this out and put it on the ground, then selected a gallon can of polyester filler. He began to read the instructions on the label.

Soon François joined him and they began once more to work, Frank mixing the fast-hardening plastic on a small sheet of metal and applying it quickly to use it all up before it adhered to his putty knife. This job progressed quickly, and as the day was already quite warm, the mixture hardened so fast that François was able to begin sanding almost at once. The shiny pieces of metal scrap began to disappear, the panels taking on once more their original shapes. Soon both men were lying alongside of the car, their heads raised slightly from the ground as they operated the electric drill sanders above them. The work was gruelling, for their arms quickly ached and the white powder flew off the edge of the rotating disks, so that if they weren't careful in which direction they worked it sometimes would blow directly into their faces, clotting in their eyelashes, burning the eyes and leaving a chlorine taste in their noses and throats.

Frank heard Gabrielle calling to François from the kitchen door; she spoke animatedly to him for a long minute in French. He struggled to his feet and walked to the steps, returning with two pieces of damp cloth to be used as dust masks. "We have to put these on, Frank." François grinned sheepishly.

"Good idea, we'll still have to watch our eyes though."

By lunch-time they had made great progress, the final imperfections were being replastered and François was stirring a quart of black rust-coat paint to be applied over their completed work and along the bottom section of the car. By two o'clock they were picking up their tools and congratulating one another on their accomplishment. The children began to crowd around, impatient for the paint to be dry, while Frank replaced the wheels and began to return the vehicle to the ground. François sent them to find cleaning materials with which to complete the job inside, and they crawled in and out, washing windows and door-pads, shining chrome and wiping dust from everywhere. Finally they could find nothing more to occupy themselves, and at last François declared the paint to be "dry enough". This began an immediate uproar, causing the men to laugh. Maybe they could take a quick drive to the lake, he continued, as the children shouted encouragement; they could be back before dark. Frank would of course come along, but in the end he had refused to do so, and under protest, had watched as the family drove away, the two smallest children waving to him from the rear window. The car was no thing of beauty, he reflected, but it didn't look too bad from a distance. It was the family's first automobile.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"So what do you think, Frank? It's a good idea?"

Frank snapped back into reality. "I'm sorry François, I was thinking about something. What did you say?"

"I was telling you about this plan they have for anybody who was in the war. I can add on my army time to my pension, and retire earlier."

"You mean you still have an army pension plan?"

"No, I didn't have any money when I left the army, so I got my contributions back, I think it was only about a hundred dollars. Now, with the interest, it would be more, but I can put it back. That means I can retire in December."

"What? You mean this December? Did you just explain all this to me?"

"Well no Frank, I was just getting to that part. I know you're not going to be too happy about it."

It was a shock. Frank had known François would retire soon, perhaps in two or three years, but this event had now been moved ahead into the immediate future. The departure of his friend and colleague would affect Frank's job, for he had cultivated few friends in the guard service, and his continuing enmity with George Wells would ensure that he couldn't select his new co-worker. Frank would certainly be at loose ends come the end of summer. François dropped several coins on the counter and rose to go out and replace Tom.

When Tom sat down he noticed at once that Frank's mood had changed. He remarked lightly, "What's the matter? You look like you just lost your best friend."

"You're not far wrong Tom," he answered with a bitter smile, then to change the subject, he signalled to the waitress for more coffee.

As Frank turned off the expressway on his way home he found himself still pondering François' approaching resignation. It had bothered him on-and-off the entire day. To regret his driver's good fortune and early retirement seemed to him a trifle selfish, but Frank was surely going to miss the presence of that big Frenchman who had been a part of his working life for so many years.

Still, the news wasn't all bad. Tom McDermott was working out well; Frank had observed him carefully all day and found him very capable as a guard. He had made some preliminary inquiries, tentatively testing his attitudes on several subjects of interest to himself. The younger man was interesting, informed, and possessed a receptive tolerance to the ideas and opinions of others, even if not always prepared to agree with them. Frank respected that in him and found, perhaps prematurely, that he was beginning to like his new partner.

As Frank turned into the laneway Diane was standing on the front lawn talking to Joan Stanton, who was waiting for her dog to finish its business with the grass. The little poodle continued to circle, sniffing carefully, always in the preparatory semi-crouched position.

"Got to find the exact right spot," Frank raged inwardly, "Wouldn't want to piss anywhere that the lawn's already dead." He parked the car beyond the corner of the house, out of sight of the two women, and shut it off. "Damn, I haven't been home ten seconds and already I'm upset. I've got to learn to take things more in stride. Nothing here is going to change, and refusing to accept it just makes my head ache." As he entered the kitchen the heavy aroma of cooking met his nostrils and he realized he was hungry. The food smelled good. Diane could be heard climbing the front stairs and soon she joined him.

"Hi, you're home early. I was hoping to have dinner ready when you got home." She smiled warmly at him.

Frank placed his hands on her waist and kissed her quickly on the lips. She was cooly responsive. Frank was suspicious; this was nothing like the reception he had anticipated, after the row that had occurred when he arrived home yesterday evening. She had accused him of being a drunk, and failing to show consideration for his family. What had brought about the dramatic change in climate? Surely not any feelings of regret or remorse over the events of the past two days, for normally the atmosphere would continue to be frosty for some time yet. "No, there's something in the wind", he thought ironically.

"How did it go today?"

"Oh fine, I was up before Rodger left, did housework all morning, then watched my shows this afternoon. I had a nice day."

"Oh … well that's good … No calls or anything?"

"Nope."

Frank began to walk away, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He remained nonplussed at this turn of things. "Who knows, maybe she's as sick of the way things have been going as I am, still …"

When the family sat down to dinner Frank watched his son closely for some sign that he had been caught. There was none, indeed at one point the boy felt his father looking at him, and boldly, had returned his stare, a quizzical yet offensive "yes?" in his eyes. Frank was puzzled.

"Did you get your lunch okay yesterday?"

"Well no, actually, I got it today. I didn't go yesterday," delivered in a matter-of-fact manner, with no apparent note of apology.

Frank pushed his plate ahead slightly and rested his arms on the table. "I see, and ah, why not?"

"Now Frank, don't get angry," Diane interrupted, "I explained everything to Mr. Horowitz when he called this morning."

"You explained things, and how did you know he was absent yesterday?"

"Well, I didn't know before, but they were going to suspend him Frank. For truancy, and I might add, none of this would have happened if you hadn't gone nosing around the school yesterday."

Frank ignored her. "Where were you yesterday?"

"He was in Toronto".

Frank continued to look directly into the boy's face. "And what were you doing in Toronto?"

"Looking for an apartment. That is, Jimmy and Suds and I are. We're going to T.O. for the summer to work and we're going to share expenses."

"I see, but aren't you forgetting something? You need jobs before you can look for an apartment."

"We have jobs. This isn't the first time we took a day off. We have jobs already and now we have an apartment too. We paid the first month's rent yesterday."

"Don't you think you'd be further ahead staying home for the summer and working full-time? You don't have to pay anything here. Look at the money you could save. I'm against this!"

"Dad, I'm not asking for your permission. I'll be eighteen next month, I want to work in Toronto this summer, and I'm going!" He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat quickly, his eyes on his plate. Frank and Diane did likewise. They ate in silence, Rodger finished his meal and rose from the table.

"I've got to go. I'll be late for work." He hurried from the room and presently Frank heard the front door bang shut.

"Tell me. How much did you know about this?"

"This morning before school, Rodger got me up and told me about the Toronto plan. He said one of his friends warned him the teachers were asking questions about him yesterday. So I wrote him a note, what else could I do? Anyway, about eleven o'clock the teacher phoned to ask whether I had written a letter excusing Rodger from school. Of course, I said I had. Then he asked me why my signature looked so different from all the other notes I had written. I told him I suffer from rheumatism and sometimes I don't write so well. He laughed at that. Laughed at me Frank! I was so mad, but I couldn't say anything. I was afraid they were going to suspend Rodger."

"And I suppose you think that would make a difference?" Frank demanded through clenched teeth. "Or are you really not sharp enough to understand what's happening here?"

"What do you mean? What's happening Frank?" she replied stupidly.

"He's quitting school, that's what! Those pals of his have no intention of going to university, and Rodger won't be coming back here this fall either. Once he gets down there in Toronto, earning a full paycheck, making his own rules, and tom-catting around, he won't want to return here."

"Oh Frank you don't know anything of the sort, and I wish you wouldn't be so vulgar. Roger has more self-control than you do, and he probably isn't morbidly fascinated with sex like you are. He just wants to be on his own for awhile, that's all." Her face softened. "Remember, when I was eighteen we got married." She smiled at him over this reminiscence.

"Don't remind me," he glared at her. "I hope you wouldn't be satisfied to watch him do a replay of your life! … Or mine," he added quietly after some reflection.