He looked the same—well, not quite. The tiny scar was there, to prove it was not a dream, and he quickly undid his shirt, and pulling it off, got up on a chair to peer over his shoulder to see how his back looked in the square of glass.
A whiplash like a long clean briar tear lay across his shoulders, and as he looked, he almost felt again the searing cut.
Chris grinned, buttoning up his shirt. Then it had been no dream, no childish imagining.
A voice soared up the stairs. "Chris! Chris darling? Are you home?"
Aunt Rachel had news for him of his mother's imminent return.
Chris opened his bedroom door, pulling out from his pocket the first thing his fingers hit on, and as he went downstairs whistling, "Farewell and Adieu, to you Spanish Ladies," he tossed and caught, and tossed and caught again, an old silver button burnt black in a fire.
$3.25