Early the next morning the group passed through Hue, capital of Vietnam under the old monarchy. Bao Dai, the last king, had been quite a ladys' man by Pho's account. He lived in France now. The truck passed over the Perfume River and towards the 17th Parallel. Once there, it passed over the Hien Luong bridge. Less than an hour later it was time to change course.

"Turn left here, please," asked Jason. Pho's translation brought a distrustful glare from Duong. The driver complied with the change of direction request but pointed an accusing finger at Pho in the passenger seat beside him. Duong shouted at Pho. Pho endured this vituperation without protest. Duong became more and more angry. He raised his voice, screaming and hurling invectives at the bureaucrat. The object of his abuse stared blankly back at him.

"Perhaps Duong would be more happy if we asked for another driver?" wondered Jason aloud. Pho did not bother to translate this suggestion. Duong's tirade came to an end.

"The last report we have of Captain Solem's whereabouts mentions a small village called An Lac," said Grandpa, citing the village that Pho had circled. "We think it would be a good idea to begin our search there."

When Pho translated this request Duong's suspicions were all but confirmed. He drove on in cold silence. An hour later the truck came to a stop among a collection of huts on the side of a hill. Jim, Pho and Duong got out of the truck. Jason remained in his seat.

"This is not An Lac," Grandpa stated flatly. "Perhaps Colonel Duong needs to relieve himself. I can wait here until he is finished."

Duong was stunned by the translation of this announcement. He strode behind one of the huts for a few minutes and returned to the truck, muttering as he did so.

"I gather that the Colonel calls my ancestry into question," inferred the elder McGuire. Pho neither corrected nor confirmed this impression.

"He might be gratified to know that many who knew my ancestors would agree with him!" added Grandpa. Pho smiled as he translated this observation. Duong grunted. His mood improved only slightly.

"Gramps, how did you know that this wasn't the right village?" asked Jim in LOOP.

"I didn't," answered his grandfather.

In another fifteen minutes the truck came to a stop again. This village was slightly larger than the previous one. Approximately sixty houses formed a circle around a central well. The men disembarked and walked towards the nearest building. Pho questioned an old man sitting outside the edifice. The old one pointed down the road to another building. Pho and Duong led the McGuires over to this second structure. Duong stepped inside and spoke with someone. Pho explained that this was the mayor's home. Duong and a rotund older man came through the doorway. Americans? No, there were no Americans here. Through Pho Jason asked if the mayor would object to the group looking around. The mayor turned to Duong, who declared that there would be little purpose wasting time in such an endeavour.

"Please thank the mayor for his permission," said Grandpa. With this, the elder McGuire spun on his heels and ambled out of town towards the rice fields. The others followed him as he went from farmhouse to farmhouse, knocking on doors and asking questions through Pho. The pattern evident at the mayor's house repeated itself again and again. The farmer would look at Duong and assure the McGuires that, no, there were no Americans here. On to the next farmhouse. Two hours later Duong's patience wore thin. How many times did these silly foreigners need to be told the same simple truth?

The entourage came to a farm with two houses. As usual, the farmer insisted that there were no Americans in the vicinity. Jason wondered: could the group talk to the people in the other farmhouse? No, they were not here right now. In the distance a group of people were working a rice field. Jason thanked the farmer and walked towards the workers. Two children were carrying weeds to a compost heap. Two older women and two younger men dug furrows between the rows of rice. A taller man and a younger woman stooped over their hoes, building up the rows. Wide straw hats hid the faces of all six adults. All were barefoot, with mud caking their feet as they toiled in the paddy. Jason stood in front of the tall man.

"Hello, Mr. Solem," said Grandpa. The man straightened himself. As he tilted his head back the group could see his face. Strong tropical sun had tanned his face brown. Blue eyes squinted as the sunlight struck them. He was unmistakably Caucasian.

"English," said the man dryly. "It's been a while..."

Jim drew closer to study the man's face. His quarry seemed relieved, like a criminal nagged by conscience. A perfunctory glance at Jim, Duong and Pho acknowledged their presence but the man's attention focused on Grandpa McGuire.

"How did you find me?"

Grandpa did not respond. The younger woman moved closer to the man, staring fearfully at the visitors. She cast a sidelong glance at the children working a few paces from her.

"Who sent you?"

"Your wife," answered the elder McGuire. At this moment the American put his arm around the woman beside him. "Your wife back in New Jersey," Jason clarified.

Bill Solem nodded. He spoke a few words in Vietnamese to the woman at his side. She did not seem reassured.

"May we speak with you?" asked Jason.

Captain Solem spoke to the woman beside him and led the group to the second farmhouse. The woman rushed ahead and began preparing a meal for the men. Both children lagged behind, peering with apprehension at the visitors. At the doorway Jason turned to Pho and Duong.

"We will rejoin you in a moment," he said, gesturing that Pho and Duong should wait outside. Jim, Jason, Bill and the children gathered around a low table inside the hut. Conversation started slowly with small talk about the weather and this year's crop. The woman scurried about, hastily preparing and serving rice to the McGuires and to Pho and Duong outside. Neither Grandpa nor Captain Solem ate. For a few moments the two men simply sat and stared at each other until Bill spoke.

"Why?" His voice spoke of a betrayal.

"I have come here," said Jason thoughtfully, "to ask you that question."

The pilot sighed. He chose his words carefully.

"I am not sure that you will understand--"

"We will try," ensured Grandpa.

"I like to see things grow. I like to watch things grow," he explained, looking at the two children beside him. "I am an engineer. I like to build things. This was not my job with the Air Force."

Jim shifted his weight as he sat on a straw mat. He finished his rice and set his bowl down.

"I was kept separate from the other prisoners," Bill continued slowly. "At first the soldiers thought I might make a statement against the U.S. government. Eventually, they understood that I am not very political. I wouldn't make any statements. But at the same time they sensed that I didn't bear them any hard feelings. Hell, I was just doing my job bombing them into dust. Wasn't anything personal, you know?"

"I'm sure that was a great comfort to them," observed Grandpa. Bill cast his gaze downwards.

"They took me around," restarted Bill. "Showed me where the bombs were dropped. I saw it up close. It was a lot more real down on the ground."

Bill's voice trailed off. He looked over at Jim for a moment.

"Is this your son?" he queried.

"Grandson."

"Did you play baseball when you were younger?" he asked Jim.

Jim nodded. In fact, baseball had been something that defined his childhood. Football, fishing, basketball, skipping school and sneaking around smoking cigarettes. None of these things were as appealing since he became an adult.

"I saw a lot of kids who liked to play baseball and soccer. They wouldn't get the chance to play any more. This argument about whether these people should have the right to choose a communist government in a fair election didn't seem to take these kids into account. Didn't seem to account for a lot of things.

"After a while I started seeing things differently than I had through the bomb sights. But it wasn't these silly cadres that made me see things in a new light. They were far too political for my tastes. Eventually, the interrogators realized this. They brought in a young man to talk to me. We got along very well, the two of us. Talked for hours about philosophy, religion and psychology. Very bright lad, that one. I think he felt the same way about the cadres as I did. Silly bastards, all of them.

"We wondered what all of this shit was really about. Not just the war, mind you. Life in general. I'm afraid life hadn't been very kind to the young man. The old government had killed his family. He moved to another village and started a family of his own. The Viet Cong used the village as a base. Some Americans came, raped his wife and burned the village. Then some government troops came in and killed his wife and kid.

"But the guy hung in there. Never became bitter. Never became political. He told me his secret."

Captain Solem looked down at the bowl of rice growing cold before him. He turned toward Jim and studied his younger guest carefully.

"I would guess that you were born into a good home. I'd guess you were a reasonably decent kid and grew up to be a decent human being. Eventually, you'll come to a good end. And I would guess that you're happy with all of that."

Jim did not respond. Was he supposed to?

"Are you a religious man?" asked Solem.

Jim shrugged his shoulders. He didn't get a chance to respond.

"If so, you should expect to go to a just reward in heaven. Consider someone less fortunate. Consider some poor kid born into a broken home in some god-forsaken ghetto. Grows up with street gangs into a criminal. Leads a crooked life and comes to a bitter end. Roasts in hell. But what is the difference between you and him?"

Jim stared blankly at the pilot. What point was he getting at?

"No difference at all, really. All you've done is maintain the status quo. You've both pissed your time away on this earth. Neither of you will have improved. That's the secret. We've got to improve. It isn't important what we've done. Fought. Stolen. Dropped bombs on innocent children. It's only important to improve, day by day. Kill fewer children today. None tomorrow. Control our temper. Walk away from our greed. Overcome fear. Speak quietly. Stop condemning the ignorant and begin working with them. To hell with heaven; we can all work towards becoming angels without it."

Jason smiled and peered at his grandson. Jim frowned pensively, pondering the flyer's words.

"But when the war was over," Jim wondered aloud, "why wouldn't they allow you to return home with the others?"

Solem was taken aback by the question.

"I could go anywhere I wanted," he explained, "but I was already home."

Jason nodded. But Jim didn't understand yet.

"You wanted to stay here? In this--"

"This is my home now," reiterated the captain. "At first I felt guilty about the destruction. Guilt will do strange things to some people. But this young man, he got me past that. Now I had to rebuild. I helped the locals build hospitals. Schools. Playgrounds. Yeah, I even helped build a baseball diamond or two. For a while I taught English and mathematics at the local high school. After a few years they had enough teachers without me. Some of my own graduates replaced me as teacher. I was free to come here and work on this farm."

Captain Solem was gone. Only Mr. William Solem remained. He called the woman over to his side.

"This is my wife. These are my children."

Jason asked an indelicate question: what should he tell Bill's American wife and family back in Hoboken? Bill did not answer.

Grandpa McGuire produced the photo album he had been carrying on the trip. He opened it on the table in front of his host.

"Janet would want me to show you these pictures."

Jason began eating his rice. Solem stared down at the images before him. Minutes passed before he turned the page. He cleared his throat once. When his new wife came to pick up Jim's bowl Bill closed the album and pushed it back toward his guest.

"How are they doing?" asked Solem.

"Billie Junior is twelve now," replied Jason. "I'm told he likes to play football. Plays a decent guitar, too. Your daughter, Jennifer, is fifteen now. Good student. She and Janet are at odds over Jenny's boyfriend."

"My daughter has a boyfriend?" Solem wondered incredulously.

"Yes," confirmed Grandpa McGuire, "she has a man in her life. Well, a boy, at least. He's seventeen. Nice lad, actually. I think Janet would prefer that he was a fifteen year old Catholic priest, though!"

"My daughter has a boyfriend!" repeated the pilot, shaking his head in astonishment.

"Nothing serious yet. Janet thinks she's a little boy crazy."

"And Janet?" Bill wondered. "How is she doing?"

"She misses you. Financially, she's okay. Still works at the library. This year she started getting a widow's pension. I think she got a life insurance settlement, too. She was worried for a while that she might have to sell the house. There were some thin times. But she's okay now."

Bill Solem thought for a while.

"If she had proof that I was alive," he surmised, "she wouldn't accept that pension any more. Even if the government still offered it, I mean. She's very head-strong that way, you know. She'd probably give that life insurance money back, too."

"Your wife is a widow, Bill," Jason stated bluntly.

"And must remain so," asserted the American, "until she meets someone else."

"I don't think she wants anyone else," declared Jason.

"Perhaps you could convince her?" suggested Bill.

The conversation came to an end. Finished his meal, Grandpa thanked his hosts and left. Jim gave Bill one last look before following his grandfather into the truck. Jim could not explain why he was so envious of the man.

Barely out of the village Duong demanded a complete report of the McGuire's conversation with Solem. Pho translated this request as tactfully as he could.

"The colonel is curious to know what you and Mr. Solem found to talk about," probed Pho.

"He told us that you were of great help to him, Pho," Jason replied matter-of-factly.

Pho translated this answer verbatim for Duong. The colonel seemed mollified for the moment.

It was already evening when the group began the return trip to Saigon. Duong stopped overnight at a different military base. This one was just south of Hue. The next day he made only one stop--this time at a restaurant hut--in the early afternoon. Traffic was slower. The McGuires fell asleep in the back seat as darkness fell. When Jim woke up it was early morning. They were re-entering Saigon. Presumably, two days of hot weather had dried the quagmires just north of the city; the McGuires would not be called upon to extricate the truck from any sink-holes.

"Oh, good, you're awake, Jim," said Pho. "Duong will be making a stop downtown before driving us to the airport. Your flight is leaving in an hour."

Duong negotiated the winding roads of downtown Saigon like a seasoned taxi driver. Duong reported to his superiors in a security station while the others remained in the truck.

"Jim," said Pho as they waited for Duong's return, "there's something I'd like to give you."

Pho reached into his shirt pocket and produced a small yellow book.

"I found this book among my brother's effects. I think he bought it in the university book store. It has meant a lot to me. When things were going badly I would read it. When I thought that the world was an evil place I would read this passage..."

Pho opened the book and pointed out one line: There is no evil; only ignorance.

"When I wondered how I would endure the things that were happening I read this verse here..."

Pho moved his finger to the opposite page.

Cut out my eyes
And I will see
Beauty
You cannot imagine.
Cut out my tongue
And I will sing
In silence.
Cripple me
And watch me dance!

"When I wondered how--and whether--I should continue on with my life I read this part..."

Pho flipped a couple of pages and fingered another aphorism: Survival is the only vengeance.

"Jim, do you know who wrote this book?"

Jim thought for a moment. Only one answer made sense.

"My mother?"

Pho nodded.

"I hope that I have been of some help to you and your grandfather. If so, I hope that I've been able to repay your mother for all of the help she has given me. Jim, I want you to have this book."

At first Jim declined. The book obviously meant more to Pho than to Jim. Certainly Grandpa would have a copy of it on one of his book shelves.

"Please, take it. I won't be needing it any more," Pho insisted, glancing at Duong as he returned to the truck.

As he accepted the gift Jim became aware that his grandfather was awake.

The truck stopped at the airport. Pho unloaded the luggage. Jason offered his hand to Duong.

"I'd like to thank you, Colonel. We couldn't have succeeded without you," he waxed. Duong looked over to Pho for assistance.

Jason leaned forward. Jim heard him whisper to Duong: "That's alright. I know that you can understand me. I couldn't imagine the authorities sending someone along that didn't speak English."

Jim looked in amazement at Duong. Was the colonel really blushing?

Pho carried the bags to the gateway. Jim shook Pho's hand and wished him the best of luck. Then he noticed the plane out on the tarmac.

Jason and Pho did not shake hands. In fact, the two men stared at each other without exchanging any words. Grandpa was oblivious to Jim.

"Come on, Gramps," chided Jim, "our flight's leaving." Jim took his grandfather by the arm and dragged him through Customs and onto the plane.

Jim spent the flight to Bangkok reading his mother's book. It was collection of sayings and short poems. He recognized that Pho and his grandfather had been quoting from it during the trip to An Lac.

Halfway from Bangkok to Hong Kong Jim noted his grandfather's silence.

"You're not saying much, Gramps. Tired?"

The old man shook his head.

"What did Pho tell you when he gave you your mother's book?" Grandpa asked.

"You heard him. He said...uh...that the book had helped him get through life."

"And what else did he say?"

Suddenly a thought struck Jim.

"He said he wouldn't need it any more..."

The McGuires spent the night in a hotel in Hong Kong. Jim studied the small yellow book carefully. Something about it nagged at him. He could not put his finger on it. The poems tended to follow a strict rhythm and rhyme. But it was the prose that tweaked his curiosity. Something about the prose...

Grandpa McGuire emerged from the shower.

"Ah, it's good to feel human again," he exclaimed, revelling in his first shower in days.

"Gramps, how come you never told me about my mother? How come you never told me about this book?"

"How come you never asked?" countered the old man. The question was not rhetorical. "How come you've never shown an interest in her until now? Does the fact that she wrote a book mean so much?"

"It seemed to mean a lot to Pho," parried Jim.

"The book wasn't a best seller," explicated Jason. "Barely sold two thousand copies. Fewer than five hundred at home. It never would have bought us a truck."

Jim brushed aside this remark.

"I've been going through this book since we left Saigon. There's one thing that stands out about its author: she was much more your daughter than my mother."

"Yes," Jason agreed before switching to LOOP, "but that was her kiyataga. Time ran out before she could finish her kiyatakoi."

The next day they caught a flight to Seattle. The two hour stopover afforded the McGuires the luxury of ordering a pizza from an airport restaurant. Normally, the inflated price of $10.95 would have annoyed Jim. But $10.95 seemed a cheap price to pay for something that he would have given his right arm for 48 hours earlier. Shortly after its arrival at their table the meal was interrupted by two men. They asked to speak with Jason. Alone.

Jim scrutinized the men. Short hair, clean fingernails, conservative ties and polished shoes. There were only two possibilities: they were either G-men or Mormon missionaries. No one else would be caught dead in such boring attire. These two made bankers look like fashion plates. But what would Mormons be doing here? Airports are Hare Krishna turf.

"Do I know you?" asked Grandpa. The heavier of the two men flashed some identification in front of the older McGuire, shielding it from Jim's view. Grandpa rolled his eyes impatiently. Jim discounted the Mormon possibility; this was definitely "the heat".

"This is my grandson, Jim," introduced Jason. "We may speak freely here."

The two agents shifted uneasily. The thinner one came to the point quickly.

"We'd like to know if you encountered anyone of interest to us."

"I'm sorry if I did not make it sufficiently clear before our trip," apologized Grandpa politely, "but we will be reporting to Mrs. Solem. And only Mrs. Solem."

The two agents looked at each other. The heavier one tried a different tact.

"Perhaps it would be better if we continued this conversation downtown?"

"Only if the acoustics there are better," volleyed Jason. "I'm sorry if you are having trouble hearing me here."

The two officers were visibly stunned by this rebuke. The larger one tilted his head sideways and the two retreated out of sight.

"Uh, Gramps, maybe you were a little hasty there. Maybe you shouldn't have rattled their cage so much?"

"How else can we free them from it?" retorted Grandpa. Jim dropped the subject immediately. Grandpa was obviously in a formidable mood here and Jim would be no match for him.

The McGuires continued on to Minneapolis to pick up their truck. Once inside it Jim expressed his eagerness to see home again.

"We have to go to Hoboken first," declared his grandfather.

"That's not exactly on our way, you know," protested Jim meekly. It was no use. On to Hoboken.

Grandpa McGuire insisted on stopping at a native museum in Wisconsin. This would require a two hour detour. Again, Jim knew better than to argue.

This particular museum amounted to little more than a log house with some vague relics arranged on tables for display. Jim was underwhelmed. Jason was transfixed.

"This was the central village of the Aztalan," explained the curator. "They were the only North American native group to build permanent shelters. Buildings. They were also the only tribe to practice cannibalism. They farmed corn. See the kernels there on the table?"

Jim watched as his grandfather touched each kernel, every crude tool and most of the bones.

"I've never heard of the Aztalan," observed Jim. "What happened to them?"

"They were wiped out in the early sixteenth century," answered the man. "At about the same time that Europeans came to North America."

"The Aztalan had taught the other tribes a common sign language," added Grandpa, emerging from his trance. "Because of this work a Seminole from the Everglades could communicate with a Carrier native from the Pacific coast.

"The Aztalan also taught the other tribes the ways of peace. No native American could even form a fist, thanks to the Aztalan influence. But the Europeans brought war to North America, and the Aztalan spoke out against any war effort. They were seen as traitors."

Grandpa looked at Jim intently and said: "Truth is not the first casualty of war; the people who speak it are."

"Did he say `cannibalism'?" asked Jim.

"The Aztalan ate their parents' remains," explained Grandpa. "It was a deeply religious ceremony to them. It was the last meal the parents could provide their children. The ceremony allowed the parents to live on in their children."

The curator was taken aback by Jason's treatise on the subject. It exceeded the facts established by archeologists. He did not want to offend his guests by a correction.

"Very little is known about the Aztalan," he treaded carefully, eying Jason. "Most experts are not so sure about their culture or the reason for their demise."

Grandfather McGuire surveyed the grounds with great reverence. He ran his hands over a near-fossilized stump. This was the main gate to their village, he contended. Grandpa prostrated himself near it, claiming that this is where their last chief fell. He claimed that a collection of stones had once constituted a sacred fireplace. Pointing a finger at a vacant lot nearby he described a corn field through which the last of the Aztalan had escaped. All of this was too much for Jim. He left his grandfather to his musings and retreated back to the truck. Fifteen minutes later his grandfather joined him.

"You wanted to go home, Jim," stated Grandpa. "We are there."

After staying overnight somewhere in Indianna they drove on to Hoboken. Traffic was slow on the Interstate because of a blinding thunderstorm ahead of them. Aside from a few drops of rain on the windshield the McGuires were fortunate enough to avoid it.

Just before 9:00 P.M. the truck entered Hoboken. Jason picked up a street map at a convenience store and got verbal directions to the Solem house on Firth Street. Unfortunately, he forgot the directions before he got back to the truck. It took the McGuires an hour of finger pointing, arguing and wrestling over the flashlight to navigate the three blocks from the convenience store to their destination.

Jim parked outside the Solem house. Even in the moonlit darkness Jim could see that it was a comfortable split level in a middle class neighbourhood. He turned to his grandfather, waiting for the old man get out of the truck.

"I can't," announced Grandpa.

"What do you mean, `you can't'?"

"I just don't know what to say to her," insisted Jason.

"Well, you should have thought about that before we drove here!"

"Jim, I want you to talk to her," decided Grandpa.

"Me! If you don't know what to say to her what do you think I'm going to say in there?"

"You can do it, Jim. Give her this," ordered Grandpa, handing Jim the photo album.

Jim gaped at his grandfather. He knew there was little sense in arguing. Jim grabbed the album, opened the driver door, leapt out of the truck and slammed the door behind him. He strode up to the doorway of the house and rang the bell.

"I'll kill him," he promised himself.

A kindly brunette lady in her late thirties opened the wooden inside door, leaving the outside screen door closed and locked. She was wearing a pink housecoat over a flowered flannel nightgown. Upon seeing Jim she instinctively began rearranging her hair. Jim had expected a matronly woman hardened by the realities of bringing up two children alone. He was pleasantly surprised. He guessed that, had the woman been expecting company, she would seem even more attractive. Her kindly face would be graced with some blusher, her deep brown eyes better defined by mascara and her sandy hair would be more carefully combed.

"Mrs. Solem?"

The lady nodded.

"You don't know me. My name is James. James McGuire. My grandfather--"

"Oh, please...please come in!" she welcomed, unlocking and opening the screen door.

Jim entered the house. He accepted her offer of tea and cookies. Mrs. Solem sat her guest down and retreated into the kitchen. A thought struck Jim: this was the third woman in as many days that was preparing food for him. Perhaps he should have declined?

Three minutes later Mrs. Solem reappeared, placing a cup of tea and some chocolate chip cookies on the end table beside her guest. She then sat down on the sofa beside Jim.

"Do you have news of my husband?" she asked, clutching her hands anxiously.

Jim nodded as he groped for something to say.

"Did you see him?"

Again Jim nodded.

"Is he alive?" she wondered.

Jim did not respond immediately. Obviously, this would require more diplomatic skills than Jim could normally muster. He clasped his hands for a moment and prepared his explanation. The delay in his response gave Mrs. Solem the impression that, no, her husband was not alive. The longer the delay, the deeper the impression.

Jim was, in fact, only stalling for time until he could think of something appropriate to say. What would Grandpa do here? Oh, yeah, he'd wimp out and send in Jim. Alright, what now? Something caught his eye. Jim fingered a photograph of a young boy holding a baseball bat.

"This photo here, is this your son?"

"Y-Y-Yes," replied Janet Solem, startled by the change of subject. "Umm, he's much older now."

"How old was he when this picture was taken?" inquired Jim with a wan smile.

"Almost six."

"My mother died when I was about that old," continued Jim. "You know, my first memories were of my mother's funeral. I didn't know my father. I really don't remember my mother from when she was alive. But I remember her funeral like it was yesterday. I was standing beside my grandfather. A little confused. I didn't understand what was going on when they were lowering her casket into the ground. `Where's Mommy going?' I asked my grandfather. Grandpa explained that my mother had `gone inside'. I didn't understand. I started crying and asked Grandpa what he meant. Was she going inside that box? Was she going inside the ground?

"Grandpa shook his head. He explained that my mother was going inside here--he tapped me on my chest--and that she would live inside me from now on."

Janet Solem's eyes filled with tears as she listened.

"Your husband is not coming home. He has gone inside," Jim concluded, touching the woman on her chest. "He's gone inside here now."

There wasn't anything left to say. It was getting late. Jim excused himself and fled from the house.

Out in the truck again Jim's mood was far less sympathetic.

"What the hell was that all about?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't know what to say--"

"Bullshit!" screamed Jim, "You've never been at a loss for words in your fucking life!"

Grandpa made no more denials. As Jim turned the truck around and headed home his grandfather asked him: "How old are you, Jim?"

"You know perfectly well how old I am. I'm thirty nine years old!"

Jason McGuire stared out the passenger window for a second before continuing.

"I'm sorry you've had to grow up so fast."

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