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School. A seemingly ordinary day. The usual learning. The usual recess. The usual rambunctiousness. Even the unusual seemed usual, though the small projectile wasn't a wad of paper, but a rock, and the target, the usual target, was the kid who didn't quite fit in.


England. London. The Blitz. Is this a good time to be playing the piano?


1942. World War Two. A plane, bound for India, touches down in North Africa. Among the crew, an American flyer. A few hours to rest. But the day is long and blazing hot. He finds a cafe shaded by palms. Several priests are there, drinking coffee hotter than the day. "So you are a Christian." they say. "Perhaps you have heard this story."


A girl on a swing. On her leg, something odd. A boy is pushing her. What's this? She's bailing out? Whatever can this mean?


Who walks with you in the forest mist?


Homework. Boring. Nothing of interest in books. When will you ever use this? Much better things to do. Much better. But still have to write. Write what? A paper. Oh no, what could be worse. Sitting in class. Have to write a paper. Something on the Tsar. Anastasia? Forgot my pen. Now what? Maybe she has one. You'll ask her.