He leaned against the plexiglass shield that separated the seated passengers from the loners standing. A train conductor in blue uniform collected tic...ets. This man somehow made a living collecting these scraps of paper. It made him wonder why he was so privileged to do nothing at all. Take away a man’s work, and you take away his manhood. And yet poets seemingly emasculated themselves for verse. How insane! The many who stumbled before him—Keats, Shelly, Byron—how miserably they failed in. Eight years. Do you have any idea how much it cost to find you? Even Uncle Tony wouldn't help. I didn't think he would, but Mom did. It put a strain on their relationship for years."Internally, John Stamper nodded. That sounded like the Tony Duzlick he remembered. Straight Gman through and through. FBI tattooed on the inside of his body. No sense of humor lived for the job and lived by the rules, down to the smallest thing. He wouldn't have gone outside the rulebook to find him; he was still. More

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