The coat is blue. It is wool. It is torn. You hold it in your hands. The fabric is cold. It has been in the rain. You are in the car. The engine hums. It is a low sound. It vibrates in your chest. You are driving. The road is straight. The sky is gray. It is industrial. It is late. The year is 1912. The world is turning. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne. You are tired. Your bones ache. You look in the rearview mirror. You see your own face. It is old. It is not your face. It is a stranger. You do not like it. You look away. You focus on the road. The tires hiss on the wet asphalt. There is a figure in the ditch. It is small. It is curled. You stop the car. The brakes squeal. It is a harsh sound. You step out. The air is wet. It smells of iron. It smells of rust. You walk to the ditch. You kneel. The mud is deep. It soaks your trousers. You reach for the figure. It is a child. It is a boy. He is pale. His lips are blue. You hold him. He is light. He is so light. He is dead. You know this. You check for a pulse. There is none. The heart is still. The breath is gone. You hold the body. You do not cry. You do not scream. You are a soldier. You do not break. You lift the boy. You place him in the back seat. The blue coat hangs off his shoulders. It is torn at the sleeve. A piece of fabric flaps in the wind. You look at the tear. It is a jagged line. It is a scar. You close the car door. You sit in the driver’s seat. You start the engine. You drive on. The road stretches out. It is endless. It is gray. You think of your son. His name is Arthur. He is twelve. He is in London. He is safe. He is in school. He is learning math. He is learning history. He is not here. He is not in the ditch. You are relieved. You are angry. You are confused. These feelings are heavy. They sit in your stomach. You drive faster. The speedometer climbs. The numbers blur. You pass a sign. It says Mill. It says Factory. The lights are on. The chimneys smoke. The smoke is black. It stains the sky. The air is thick. It is heavy. You breathe it in. It tastes of coal. It tastes of ash. You think of the uniform. The blue coat. It is a standard issue. It is issued by the state. It is worn by the poor. It is worn by the workers. It is worn by the children. You know this. You have seen it. You have seen it in the slums. You have seen it in the streets. It is a symbol. It is a mark. It is a shame. You do not wear it. You wear a gray uniform. You are the law. You are the order. You are the peace. You keep the peace. You keep the order. You keep the law. You are sure of this. You are certain. You are right. You are wrong. You do not know which. The road curves. The car swerves. You grip the wheel. Your knuckles turn white. You correct the path. The car stabilizes. The road is straight again. You see a light. It is ahead. It is yellow. It is warm. It is a house. It is a station. It is a refuge. You drive toward it. The light grows brighter. It becomes a door. It opens. A man steps out. He is tall. He is old. He has a gray beard. He wears a black coat. He wears a black hat. He holds a lantern. The light cuts through the fog. He looks at you. He looks at the car. He looks at the back seat. He sees the boy. He does not flinch. His face is stone. His eyes are cold. He raises a hand. He waves you on. You stop the car. You step out. You walk to him. You hold the blue coat. You hold the boy’s hand. The hand is cold. It is stiff. You offer it to him. You offer the coat. You offer the truth. You speak. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is dry.

Who is he? you ask.

The man looks at you. He does not blink. He does not speak. He looks at the coat. He looks at the tear. He looks at the mud. He looks at you. He smiles. It is a thin smile. It is a cruel smile.

He is the son, he says.

You do not understand. You shake your head. You speak again.

Who is he? you ask.

The man steps closer. The lantern flickers. The light dances. It plays on his face. It highlights the lines. It highlights the scars. He is not a stranger. He is not a station master. He is not a guard. He is a ghost. He is a memory. He is a mirror. You look into his eyes. You see yourself. You see your face. You see your age. You see your fear. You see your guilt. You see your rage. You see your love. It is all there. It is all in his eyes.

He is Arthur, he says.

You stagger back. You fall to your knees. The mud is wet. It soaks your knees. You look at the boy. You look at the coat. You look at the tear. You remember. You remember the argument. You remember the shout. You remember the door. You remember the train. You remember the time. You remember the place. You remember the name. Arthur. He is not in London. He is not in school. He is not safe. He is here. He is dead. He is in the ditch. You made this happen. You pushed him. You drove him. You sent him away. You sent him into the dark. You sent him into the rain. You sent him into the ditch. You are the cause. You are the killer. You are the monster. You are the beast. You look at the man. The man is you. The man is your past. The man is your sin. He holds the lantern. The light is bright. It burns your eyes. It burns your soul. You try to speak. You cannot. Your throat is tight. Your voice is gone. You look at the boy. The boy is still. The boy is quiet. The boy is gone. The blue coat flaps in the wind. It is a flag. It is a surrender. It is a cry. It is a scream. You reach for the coat. You tear it. You rip it. You shred it. The wool flies. It is like snow. It is like ash. It is like dust. You tear it until it is gone. You tear it until it is nothing. You hold the pieces. They are small. They are soft. They are cold. You hold them in your fist. You clench your hand. The fabric cuts your skin. The blood beads. It is red. It is warm. It is life. You look at the man. The man is gone. The light is gone. The house is gone. The road is gone. The car is gone. You are alone. You are in the ditch. You are in the mud. You are in the rain. The sky is dark. The stars are out. They are cold. They are distant. They are indifferent. You lie down. You lie in the mud. You lie in the rain. You close your eyes. You feel the ground. It is hard. It is cold. It is real. You feel the air. It is wet. It is heavy. It is real. You feel your heart. It beats. It is slow. It is weak. It is fading. You wait. You wait for the end. You wait for the dark. You wait for the peace. You wait for the release. You wait for the mercy. You wait for the truth. The truth is here. It is in the mud. It is in the rain. It is in the blood. It is in the wool. It is in the silence. It is in the stillness. It is in the void. You accept it. You accept the weight. You accept the pain. You accept the loss. You accept the end. You do not fight. You do not resist. You do not struggle. You let go. You let go of the past. You let go of the present. You let go of the self. You let go of the name. You let go of the rank. You let go of the law. You let go of the order. You let go of the peace. You let go of the world. You let go of everything. You are nothing. You are no one. You are dust. You are ash. You are gone. The rain falls. It washes you. It cleans you. It erases you. It is silent. It is gentle. It is kind. It is final. It is done. The blue coat is gone. The boy is gone. The man is gone. The road is gone. The car is gone. The house is gone. The light is gone. The stars are gone. The sky is gone. The earth is gone. The rain is gone. The silence is gone. There is nothing. There is no sound. There is no light. There is no time. There is no space. There is no self. There is no pain. There is no fear. There is no love. There is no hate. There is no life. There is no death. There is only the void. It is empty. It is full. It is everything. It is nothing. It is the end. It is the beginning. It is the truth. It is the only truth. It is the final word. It is the last breath. It is the final beat. It is the last thought. It is the last feeling. It is the last moment. It is the last second. It is the last instant. It is the last eternity. It is the last forever. It is the last always. It is the last never. It is the last now. It is the last then. It is the last here. It is the last there. It is the last where. It is the last when. It is the last who. It is the last what. It is the last why. It is the last how. It is the last which. It is the last that. It is the last and. It is the last or. It is the last but. It is the last for. It is the last with. It is the last by. It is the last at. It is the last in. It is the last on. It is the last to. It is the last from. It is the last of. It is the last up. It is the last down. It is the last out. It is the last in. It is the last over. It is the last under. It is the last through. It is the last across. It is the last along. It is the last around. It is the last about. It is the last above. It is the last below. It is the last before. It is the last after. It is the last between. It is the last among. It is the last within. It is the last without. It is the last within. It is the last within. It is the last within.