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This story appeared in A.J. Budrys’s TOMORROW magazine, #15 (June
1995). You could call it fantasy -- or science fiction. I don’t care
which. I just hope you’ll call it good!
Alice Deshler grumbled more to herself than to the mouse. "Gotta git
everything in tip-top shape, yessir, for that damn woman to see. Oh,
don't panic, Al, I'm just cleanin' out your cage. I do it all the
time."
The small brown mouse cowered into a corner of its cage, away from
Alice's angry muttering and furious movements.
The Government-Issue cage was roomy and square, big enough for a family
of mice. It had both round and square exercise wheels, ladders,
automatic feeders and waterers, and a little house for the occupant to
retire to. It even had a screened latrine corner with a cup below,
which could be detached with a twist for emptying and cleaning, without
opening the cage.
Al, the mouse, cowered amid this magnificence as Alice jerked out
newspaper lining and scrubbed at the cage's floor, making it rock on its
stand.
On the inside back wall of the cage, three medals were brazed, visible
to the mouse and, through the wire, to viewers in front of the cage:
above, the Vietnam Service Medal; below, the Bronze Star and the Purple
Heart. The name of Algernon Edgerton was inscribed on them. His dog
tags were tied beside them.
"Damn her, why can't she stay away? She's not gonna git custody and
ever'body knows it," Alice grumbled fiercely. "There! It's as clean as
she'd keep it, f'r damn sure." She sighed. "Better make sure she ain't
got nothin' to file a complaint about. Lemme git you some fresh food
and water. Hmm. Maybe a piece of apple. How'd you like that, Al?"
But her tone was half-hearted. In years of caring for the mouse, Alice
had never seen the slightest hint that it remembered -- anything. The
man from the Army had explained it to her.
"You see, Mrs. Deshler, a man has a bigger brain than a mouse. He can
be cut down to anything with a smaller brain, though of course he won't
have the instincts that the lesser animal has. So the man cannot
survive as a mouse; he doesn't know how. Transformed men lose all
except maybe a scrap or two of their memories, which is in a way a
kindness. They don't really remember having been men. But it's
doubtful if he remembers you, or even his own name, and most likely he
never will."
"But can't you change him back into a man?" she had asked. "I mean, if
them damn Vietcong sorcerers could change a man into a mouse, why can't
a good American sorcerer change him back?"
"Because the memories aren't there," he had said gently. "That's the
terrible thing about this kind of war. I only wish science had never
discovered the transformation spells, as useful as they have been. A
mouse's brain simply does not have room for all the memories of a man.
So if we tried to change him back, all we would get would be a man with
no mind and no memories. A giant baby. He wouldn't be your brother Al,
any more than this mouse is -- less. The VA and Walter Reed are still
experimenting, but no answer has yet been found." He had looked at her
seriously. "We have no realistic hope that one will ever be found."
And so Alice had cared for her brother the mouse ever since.
Not long after she finished with the cage, Alice frowned at the sight
of a battered Chevy carpet swooping up the drive. Its fringe was
tattered, hanging below the battered bumper, and it flew low, barely
clearing the bumps in the flyway.
"One day that carpet is gonna fray apart and let the demon loose, right
in midflight, and she'll go smash," Alice said aloud with bitter
satisfaction. She stopped superstitiously short of expressing approval
of the image, clamping her mouth shut.
The Chevy eased to a stop and settled onto a grassy spot in the yard.
Hounds bayed and the dogs approached, their tongues lolling in the heat,
their tails wagging so vigorously their whole bodies bent and rebent.
The woman in the car dropped the wand into neutral, putting the demon to
sleep, and locked it from force of habit. The plywood doors opened on
both sides of the coach body on the carpet, and she and a skinny
ten-year-old boy got out.
Alice moved to the front door, looked out through the screen.
"Afternoon," she said, shortly. The hounds had fallen silent and were
cringing around the ankles of the newcomers.
"Afternoon," said Sylvia Lehigh. In contrast to Alice, she was still
fairly slender except for a big behind, but latterly had put on enough
weight to require a bra. Her hair was brown-blonde, darker at the
roots, and her lips too red. Despite her youthful clothing, hairstyle,
walk, and make-up, the harsh beginning of middle age was visible on her
face.
Sylvia strode sturdily across the yard, across the patches of weedy
grass, the bare patches of dirt near the unkempt, towering lilacs, past
the long-unpruned roses, stepped over a dry branch fallen from the
maple. The boy followed her with visible reluctance, but without
lagging behind.
Without pause, Sylvia mounted to the porch, and Alice pushed the screen
door at her. "Git on in there, Benny, and don't let the flies in,"
Sylvia said, holding the screen. The boy preceded her, stepped past
Alice, and stopped immediately. His gaze went at once to the mouse's
cage.
Alice gentled the screen door shut and turned. At one time she had
tried to fight off Sylvia's visits, but the younger woman had become
loud and abusive everywhere she went. Alice had thought it over, and
concluded that the less said in public, the better. So she tolerated
the visits.
"Go on and say hello to your daddy, Benny, honey," Sylvia said with
cloying sweetness.
The boy looked around in mute appeal. He was tow-headed, with a
cowlick and a rooster-tail. He had crooked teeth and large blue eyes,
and was so skinny his head seemed too big for his neck. Alice despised
him.
"Go on." Sylvia pushed at his shoulder. He moved slowly toward the
cage.
Benny hated these visits. Under the admonitory shove from his mother,
he walked slowly toward the cage. Its floor was only a little below his
eye level. The strong, musky odor of mouse flooded his nostrils as he
approached it. The mouse was nowhere to be seen. He smelled warm water
and soap, and apple. Though he was always hungry, the smell of the
apple with the other odors made him feel a little sick.
Then he saw Al, the mouse, cowering behind the little house.
"Say hello to your daddy," came his mother's impatient voice.
Benny looked at the mouse, and the mouse looked at him. Close up, it
wasn't an ordinary mouse. Its eyes were not black shoe buttons. They
looked almost human, dark blue with small black pupils. The fur was
longer on the head, and tinged with red. There were no whiskers;
instead, there was a fringe of reddish chin beard such as no mouse had.
The front paws looked like tiny pink human hands, but Benny didn't know
if that was normal for mice or not.
Hearing his mother move impatiently behind him, he said, in a cracked
voice, "Hi, dad."
The mouse ducked against the little house, turning its head away till
only one eye was revealed, peering back at him. A real mouse would
either have run and hid, Benny knew, or would have become curious and
crept sniffing toward him. But this was all that was left of Al
Edgerton, they said. Benny had no doubt of it. They'd found this
little thing shivering, like that, in the middle of a pile of clothes
and weapons and Al Edgerton's dog tags. Two days, or was it three,
before they'd been able to come back to the field and recover the
changelings? The mouse was lucky to be alive.
His mother came up behind him and Benny cringed a little from the
emotions she pushed at him.
"Ten years ago now it's been, since we was married and you was born,
Benny," she said. "It seems like yestiddee. I can still see him in his
uniform, tellin' how he was goin' to go over there and kick them gooks'
asses. Cootchy-coo!" she said suddenly, with surprising gentleness,
thrusting a work-worn finger through the mesh. "There-there, Al. I
always loved you the best."
Benny turned his head away, flushing and wriggling with embarrassment.
Then his mother turned to speak to Aunt Alice, and, ignoring their
grown-up conversation, he looked back at the mouse. It still cowered,
peering at him with one human eye.
He wondered how it felt to be a mouse, but not a mouse. He wondered
how it felt to live always in a cage. He wondered how it felt to be
cared for by Aunt Alice. He wondered how the mouse felt about his
visits, and Mommy's.
He wondered if the mouse could remember anything, anything at all,
about being a man. He wondered if the mouse knew who he was. If the
mouse knew he was its son.
There was no connection in Benny's mind between this not-mouse and the
few pictures Mommy had of his father, Al, the tall lanky man in the
faded jeans, with the reddish hair and mustache. She had none of him in
his uniform.
He wondered if this mouse really was his father.
Shivering, it looked back at him.
Sylvia pulled her finger out of the damn mouse's cage. It was always a
relief when she had gotten the mouse-petting over with. She gave a last
greedy look at it -- it seemed as healthy as it ever did -- and turned
to Alice. Arms folded, the older woman stood regarding her with deep
suspicion, square and blocky in a yellow dress that looked like the ones
Sylvia's mother used to make out of feed sacks.
"Have you heard?" Sylvia asked. "There's a man in Osceola."
"Nice for you," Alice said evenly.
Sylvia flushed. "I mean, an investigator. A man from the VA."
They looked at each other, then at the mouse.
"Well," said Alice defensively, after a moment, "he'll find nothing to
complain about here. I keep the cage clean 'n' always put out food and
water. If I'm out of the house, I have Si Longford stop in to check on
'im, and I won't have a cat about the place."
"You never know about those guys," said Sylvia darkly, just to make
Alice sweat. "He c'd take Al away 'n' put 'im in a institootion."
Alice flushed. "He gits lots better treatment here than he would in a
ole institootion."
"Mort at the garage says his name is Jonathon Moulton. He awready
raised hell with the Wittichs about their vet, Hank the cat. They
wasn't puttin' down fresh food 'n' water ever' day, Mort says.
Sometimes the food would git moldy."
They both looked at the cage again, even Sylvia feeling a little
anxiety.
"Well, he's got no complaint here," Alice said again. "Did he take
away Hank?"
"No, but he threatened to, Mort says."
They contemplated each other in silent dislike for some moments.
Sylvia was pleased to see that the worm of worry was gnawing at Alice,
despite her care of the mouse. Who knew what the VA man would find to
complain about? Why, there were books full of rules. Sylvia wondered
how long it had been since Alice had read her handbook. A long time,
she'd bet.
"Mebbe you better go through your handbook again, just to be on the
safe side," she said, and was delighted to see Alice's half-concealed
start. I bet she just remembered lots of things she's been slacking,
Sylvia thought.
"Well, we better go 'n' let you git to your work. I expect you got
lots to do before that Mr. Moulton gits to you. Did 'e call and make a
'nappointment?"
Alice shook her head but said nothing. Sylvia smiled brightly, grabbed
Benny, and dragged him out, with a final, pleased, goodbye.
"C'mon, Benny, don't lallygag about." She led her son out to the old
carpet and fussed him into the seat. As she raised the wand, Sylvia had
a thought. Maybe she should call on this Mr. Moulton.
Jonathon Moulton was not pleased to see the red light blinking on the
phone when he got back to the little town's ancient, cheap hotel. He'd
had a hot and tiring day, and as he knew no one in Osceola, it could
only be, disagreeably, about his work. With a sigh he punched the
button and spoke his room number.
"Oh, yeah, Mr. Moulton." He could almost hear the identification: the
VA man. "You got a call from a woman named Miz Lehigh, she says for you
to call her. Wait a minnit, I'll git the number."
Moulton wrote it down, sighed again, and called it.
"Mister Moulton, lissen, I gotta talk to you about my husband. My
husband Al Edgerton," came the rapid, high-pitched voice. "I gotta talk
to you before you investigate him."
"Hold on a moment," he said, supressing another sigh. He fumbled
through his briefcase, got the file on Edgerton. A mouse, this time,
and in custody of a sister, a Mrs. Deshler. Oh God, he thought.
"Perhaps you'd better talk to me in person," he said. "How about
tomorrow?"
She had to work, so they made it in the hotel lobby at five thirty. He
decided to cut it short and call on Mrs. Deshler immediately afterward,
so he called her and set up an appointment for six thirty.
Goddam, he thought. Custody battles. Just once I'd like to meet
people who want custody of the vet more than of the pension. I need a
drink.
Alice Deshler was nervous and fidgety for an hour or more before the VA
man was due to arrive. She'd spent a good part of the day scurrying
around, dabbing at dust here and there, having given the place a good
cleaning last night and this morning. Finally the government carpet
came swooping up the drive.
"What's this?" she asked, peering out past the cheap magic-made lace
curtain. "That woman and her son--!"
Three people got out of the polished wooden cab of the government car.
Speechless, Alice watched them come, the tall, thin government man
ominous in a gray felt hat, the damn boy as gangly and spindly as ever,
Sylvia swinging her big hips in her tight red waitress-skirt and smiling
like a snake in the grass. She's pulled something, Alice thought
instantly. She's going to try to git custody--
Reluctantly Alice opened the door, introduced herself.
"Jonathon Moulton," said the government man, gripping her hand firmly,
looking her in the eye. Good looking despite glasses, early thirties,
thin face. Good thing I put my hair up last night, she thought.
"Ah, I see him," said Moulton, and went straight to the cage.
Well, it was what she expected. She watched anxiously as he inspected
the cage, even going so far as to scratch at the wires, leaving a shiny
spot. It occurred to her that if she'd been neglectful, and had
recently scrubbed and scoured years of neglect away, there'd be no
patina on the wires. Thank God she'd done right by Al, she thought as
he wrote on his clipboard.
Sylvia was watching anxiously as well, but smiled sweetly back when
Alice glanced at her. You little minx, Alice thought viciously, smiling
nervously.
Next the government man looked hard at Al, wrote more, and opened the
cage door. Alice gasped at the casual way he reached inside and grabbed
the terrified not-quite-mouse.
"Hmm," said the government man, peering into Al's eyes and feeling of
his ribs and legs.
He put the mouse down and Al bolted, terrified, into his little house.
The government man wrote some more, and turned from the cage, carefully
latching its door. He looked briefly around the neat living room,
nodded, and wrote again.
"All seems in order, in terms of the veteran's care," he said. "Your
brother is well-fed, and seems healthy. His cage is clean, and it's in
a clean, neat, sunny room. Also, it's not stuck off in an attic; it's
here in the living room. In short, my report will be very favorable,
Mrs. Deshler."
Alice sighed in relief, nodded, glanced at Sylvia. The younger woman
looked brightly back, but smiled secretly. Moulton indicated couches
and a chair grouped around her coffee table. Alice seated herself
reluctantly.
"Now," he said. "Ms. Lehigh has made certain claims amounting to a
demand for custody of Al Edgerton." He held up a hand as she started to
speak. "I warn you both that I am not empowered to make that
determination. Custody battles are not the business of the
Administration; they should be settled in court."
Alice looked quickly at Sylvia, who frowned; she knew the younger woman
had no money for that.
"However, I will hear arguments on both sides, take notes, and if I
think she has warrant for her claims, I can bring them to the attention
of the Regional Director. He may or may not order a field
investigation. Beyond that I can do nothing. However, I am willing to
hear your claims."
He looked at Sylvia, who smiled brightly back at him.
"Well, Mr. Moulton," she began. "It's like I said. Al is my husband.
We was married by Revrin David Davis in the Full Gospel Assembly Church
out to Sikes Ford on county highway K."
This all came out as one glib blurt, and Alice observed that the
government man didn't write it down. He prob'ly had it wrote down
already.
"She ain't got no marriage license nor nothin'," Alice broke in.
"Because I was so took by surprise, and Al was goin' off to the Army so
soon," Sylvia shot back. "He proposed to me while we was at prayer
meetin', and we went up and Revrin Davis married us right then 'n'
there. We was goin' to git the paperwork done nex' day, but we didn't,
on account we didn't have time to before he had to go. But we was
married reg'lar, in the church, which is more'n you were, Mrs. Deshler."
Alice flushed but couldn't resist the bait: "Gittin' married by
justice is just as good as by a preacher. Anyways, if you was married
in the church, how come you ain't got no witnesses?"
"'Cause Revrin Davis died later that year from Complications of the
Bowels, just b'fore Benny was born, and Benny was born nine months after
Al went into the Army, weren't you, Benny, an' -- Benny?"
They looked around. The boy wasn't in the room. Alice dredged up a
memory of hearing the kitchen screen door close -- at least the little
brat didn't slam screen doors. "Gone out to the outhouse," she said
briefly and returned to the attack. "How come you can't find anyone
else who remembers you bein' married?" she demanded. "Wasn't there
anybody else at that prayer meetin'?"
"Because the Full Gospel Assembly Church broke up after Revrin Davis
died, and the congergation scattered," Sylvia snapped. "Besides, I was
so happy and so shook up and surprised, I didn't notice who was there.
Anyways, if I wasn't Al's wife, who was? Who was he goin' with just
before he went into the Army?"
"He could'a had all kinds of better wimmin than you," Alice said
viciously, but recalling herself, she glanced quickly at the government
man.
He looked unhappy.
Benny stood looking at the little house where Al-the-mouse was hiding,
preferring that to sitting on the edge of the grown-up quarrel.
The government man had impressed him. He had looked carefully at
everything, and he'd been very fair. Benny had a low opinion of Aunt
Alice's care for the mouse, because of his mother's constant harping on
it. But Mr. Moulton was right; the mouse was well cared for, if not
loved.
Behind him, they were going at it again. He'd been hearing such
quarrels all his life. Wearily he thought: they don't care about the
mouse.
It wasn't just the pension money, either. Mommy didn't have a husband,
though she'd had men living with them from time to time. But if she had
the mouse, she could say to everyone: Here's my poor husband.
And Aunt Alice. After Uncle Jim left her, she'd been alone, except
that she had the mouse. She could say, I'm taking care of my dear
brother Al, so I don't have time to go looking for a husband.
He wondered if the mouse really was his father. He wondered what it
would have been like, to have a father. He wondered what Al Edgerton
would have been like, if he had not been turned into the mouse. What
kind of a father he would have been. The kids at school wouldn't
despise him if he had a real father instead of just a mouse. They
wouldn't call him "Mouseboy" or just plain "Mouse."
Behind them they were arguing. Not over Al Edgerton. Over a mouse
they both despised.
Mr. Moulton had handled the mouse deftly, gently, looked at him with
more interest, more care, than Benny had ever known either woman to do.
He cares more for him than they do, Benny thought. Him and me's the
only ones that really feel sorry for him.
The poor mouse. Locked in a cage all the time, terrified whenever Aunt
Alice cleaned it or fed him, constantly being showed to visitors.
Cowering in the corner knowing somehow it wasn't supposed to be like
this, but not being able to remember being a man, maybe not even being
able to make the connection. Just knowing that this was all wrong,
wrong and frightening, fearful every minute of every day. Panting with
fear even when asleep.
Benny looked through the tiny door, just making out the curve of the
mouse's back. Most of all, it yearned to be free, he thought, to be
free of Al Edgerton, free to be a mouse. As he himself had so often
yearned to be free of all this, his mother, Aunt Alice, being
"Mouseboy."
He opened the cage door quietly and reached in, gently, deftly, like
Mr. Moulton had done, felt inside the little house.
The mouse didn't bite.
Jonathon Moulton was eating a greasy Midwestern breakfast at the little
hotel next morning when the waitress came to him. "You got a phone
call, Mr. Moulton. From a Miz Deshler. Says it's important."
With a sigh he interrupted his meal and went to the old-fashioned phone
booth in the dank little lobby.
"Mr. Moulton, something turrble's happened," came the frantic whining
voice. "Al's gone!"
After a moment he connected. "Gone! The cage is empty -- you
checked? Then -- when did you see him last?"
"Last night -- when you was here. I changed his water, but I didn't
see him -- figgered he was still in his little house. But this morning
I looked, an' he was gone!"
He hesitated a moment. "I'll be right out," he said. Damn!
He got out his notebook and looked up Sylvia Lehigh's number. He kept
the call brief, told her nothing, but demanded that she meet him at
Deshler's house. She agreed, sounding scared. If she's taken the
mouse, he thought, hanging up the wand, I'll have her arrested. The
mouse had civil rights as a human being. The Changeling Law read,
"shall retain all such civil rights as the Changed individual is capable
of exercising." This wasn't stealing a mouse; it was the legal
equivalent of kidnapping a man.
Fuming, he called up his morning's appointments and postponed them all,
and decided not to finish his breakfast.
The Lehigh woman and her son, both looking scared, were waiting in
their shabby carpet when he arrived at the Deshler home. The
heavy-bodied Deshler woman was glaring at them from behind her screen
door. He deduced that the Lehigh woman had asked what had happened, and
the Deshler woman hadn't been able to resist charging her with the
crime. They got out reluctantly as he came up. Moulton said
perfunctorily, "Good morning," and led them up onto the porch.
"Good morning," he said briefly to the Deshler woman.
"Good morning," she said viciously, glaring at the Lehighs but not
speaking to them.
Moulton went immediately to the cage but without hope. Empty, of
course. Nothing that would give a clue. He turned to the women.
They stood side by side despite their antagonism, regarding him
fearfully. They had begun to realize dimly that what had happened was a
mutual disaster, he thought. Nothing would ever be the same for them.
He didn't know who was guilty, he'd realized. It was possible that the
Deshler woman had decided to end her rival's claims by accusing her of
kidnapping the mouse.
"One of you," he said abruptly, "is either very very careless, or
guilty of a Federal crime." They looked at each other, and behind the
fear he thought he detected a flicker of pleasure on both faces.
Concealing his puzzlement, Moulton continued: "Al Edgerton is missing
from his cage. But he is somewhere. If he is found today, I'll take no
official notice. If he isn't, I'll have to report him missing to the
Veteran's Administration. That will immediately stop his pension, and
it will alert the Criminal Investigation Corps, which will investigate
the case under the Crimes Against Changed Veterans Act."
He looked at them, and read only fear in their expressions.
"Now, I know you both have claims on the mouse's custody. It may be
that one of you thought it would be cute to frame the other for a crime
against him, or at least a charge of carelessness. If so, and if the
mouse is unharmed, I won't report it as a crime, if the mouse is
returned immediately. If not, I'll have no choice."
He looked at them. They looked at him, then suspiciously at each
other. Obviously both knew the truth, obviously both accused or would
pretend to accuse the other.
"I never even went near the cage yestiddee," the Lehigh woman began in
a high, brittle voice.
"Well, I didn't have nothing to gain by taking him," the Deshler woman
said illogically. "I awready had him."
Moulton raised a hand, weary already. "Look, I'm not here to accuse or
assess blame. I just want the mouse back. If he is delivered to me at
my hotel before sundown, I'll ask no questions and take no action. I
don't intend to get involved in an argument; I don't care who has him.
I just--"
"I took him!"
A squeaky voice from behind him. Moulton turned, dread a cold weight
in his belly.
The little boy, the mouse's supposed son. After a moment the name came
to him.
"Benny," he said gently. "You took him? When? How?"
The watery blue eyes were more watery than ever; the whiny voice had a
quaver. But the gangling, spindly, unhappy boy stood firmly and faced
him. "Yestiddee, when you was all arguin' about him. I took him out of
his cage, and I took him out back, and I let him go free." The last,
proudly.
Free, Moulton thought in horror. He glanced at his watch; eighteen and
more hours ago.
"You little shit!" the Lehigh woman screeched suddenly, lunging for her
son. "You've ruint ever'thing, you little--"
Moulton extended his arm automatically, still dazed by the disaster,
and brushed her back.
"He's your son, you fool!" the Deshler woman said in hoarse triumph.
"It's you that's ruined ever'thing."
Moulton was not listening to them, but he waved them to silence so he
could hear the boy.
"You let him go," he said gently, kneeling to bring his face on a
level.
"Yes sir," said the boy firmly, despite the quaver. He was standing in
a pitiful imitation of attention, straight, his hands down at his side,
head erect on the spindly neck. A tear slid down his cheek, but he
faced Moulton without quailing.
"He was all the time in that cage, and he was afraid all the time," the
boy said, the quaver becoming more pronounced. The words came out in a
rush. "Ever'body was all the time fightin' over him, and he didn't know
why he was there or nothin' and he was unhappy. He wanted to be free!"
Moulton looked at him, and looked at the image of the mouse as seen by
the boy. It was, he thought, still stunned, a happier one than the
truth. For in truth the not-mouse had been incurably afraid, in a world
it couldn't understand, and hadn't the instincts to live in. Whatever
dim memories it had of being a man, it lacked the intelligence to
understand them, so even its memories were a source of fear. Fear, in
fact, had been its only emotion, fear of light and dark, feeding and
cage-cleaning, of the women who came and poked at it, of the huge beings
that from time to time gathered around and looked at it. Perhaps the
boy had been more merciful than the government.
Free at last, he thought.
"I give him twenty-four hours, no more," Moulton said. And eighteen of
them had gone.
He shook his head. Out there in the unkempt grass of the fields, among
the mouse runs and burrows, or under the old house, all that was left of
Al Edgerton was probably already dead. For in the subtle, intricate
society of mice the little pseudo-mouse had no instincts to guide him
and insufficient intelligence to take its place. And so he must have
crouched and shivered his last hours of a freedom more illusion than
real even for genuine mice. For him, freedom was a disaster as awesome
as a bolt of lightning upon his cage.
Of that terrorized and pitiful end of a man, the women had no
conception, and no remorse. They were quarrelling behind him in bitter,
venomous voices, each blaming the other for the death of a mouse.
Then Moulton's gaze met that of the boy. The boy's wide eyes were
fixed on him, brimming with tears.
There was the one creature, he thought, who mourned the man more than
the mouse.
He reached out, touched the thin bony shoulder. "You did right, son,"
he said. "It was time we let him go."
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