Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. ” “How?” He asked. “I’ve got bad faults. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. Meanwhile, she doesn’t realize she’s pregnant and he’s still after her, day after day. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. And then you can go home and think things over before we talk again.
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