There was a time, Lucy recalled, back in New Hampshire, when her class of small, uniformed children had been told to raise their hands if anyone they knew had been in a war - those ten-some years after World War II, there'd been a share of hands, mostly kids with uncles or more distant relations who'd gone to fight. Then, along with the standard
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But when he walked into the compound, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his mood dropped from "okay" to "life sucks."
"Christ. Of course. Of course you're here, Lucy. Things just couldn't get better could they?"
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He glanced up once more at her, half expecting her to leave. "When did things change, Lucy?"
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It was clearer the second time, more decisive. "I don't know."
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"How was your Halloween?" He needed to change the subject, and it seemed like the question on everyone's mind nowadays.
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The question spilled out, more bitter than she would've intended, before she could stop herself, and Lucy grimaced, lips pressed together tightly. "Sorry," she muttered, glancing away. It was true, though, even with all she'd tried to make things as close to alright as they could be. He'd been the one to accuse her of cheating, and he'd been the one to actually do it.
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