know about
know about Symaithia?”
“The doctors were wrong. Poor Carlo. I imagine no one took you seriously. It must have been impossible to keep a job, to make friends.” The visitor shifted, drawing even closer. “Tell me, Carlo, this is very important. Have you ever met anyone like yourself? From the old country? Not just Symaithia. Anywhere.”
“Oh, no. Never.” Carlo started as a tear dropped from his cheek onto his hand; shamed, he reached up to dry his eyes. “All my life, I think that the doctors are right. That I must have been in an accident, hurt my head, dreamed everything about the old country. You are real? You are not some new dream?” He looked up again into his visitor’s sympathetic eyes.
“I’m no dream.” The visitor reached into one of his coat pockets and brought out something dark and glinting. “Carlo, I think you’re just exactly the man I want, but I need to know one more thing. Can you handle one of these?”
Carlo looked down at the gleaming metal object in his visitor’s hands. “A gun? Yes, of course. I fought for America in World War Two. I need gloves. Why will I need to use a gun?”
The visitor smiled again. “Come to think of it, you won’t.” He aimed