"Sorry I'm not," Tom laughed again. "Somebody else's."
Coming abreast, they headed toward shore. Each face was turned toward the other. Adopting his companion's stroke, Tom adjusted himself to his pace. Though conversation was not easy, the one found it possible to ask questions, the other to answer them.
"Look like my son. What's your name?"
"Whitelaw."
A light came into the eyes, and went out again. "Where do you live?"
"Boston."
"Lived there all your life?"
"Only for the last three years or so."
"Where'd you live before that?"