The price of parting.

Saturday Evening PostNbr. 256, January 1984

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The price of parting.

He wasn't really hungry, but he ate the sliced peaches and half of his sandwich and drank the milk. He was aware that his mother had taken time out from her packing to fix the lunch for him. He sat at the kitchen table and looked out on the sloping, tree-shaded back lawn, and suddenly his throat was tight again. This was the last time he'd ever eat his lunch here. Everything he did today was for the last time, because when the 7:30 train left tonight, they would be on it.

Johnny put down the rest of his sandwich, slipped the slice of meat from it and held it down under the table. "Hey," he said.

There was a soft scrape of claws on the linoleum and the old, familiar snuffing touch as Rex took the meat from his fingers. Johnny patted the curly head. Then his eyes were blurred, and he couldn't have swallowed anything if he'd wanted to. It was the last time he'd do that, ever. They were going out for dinner tonight, his mother had said.

Johny Mitchell g...

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