I returned home on the morning train from Boston. Several friends with whom I had served in the British Army accompanied me to Cross, where they would take the next train down to Worcester. Unfortunately for all concerned, someone blew up the train.
I was injured, as were two of my friends. Three more were slain. As I lay on the siding, with a member of the Red Cross tending to me, I listened to my friend Charles breathe his last. He had survived nearly four years of combat, and he had been killed in my town, visiting me.
Inspectors from as far away as Washington, DC would travel to go over the damage and to question the survivors.
Beneath the blankets though, as the cool morning transformed into the first day of July, my body healed as only it could. Bones knitted themselves and sinew stitched. Blood sealed holes and skin crept back into place. By evening, I was bloody and battered, but ready to do what was necessary.
Over the course of July, I would hunt down those who had killed my friends, and I would exact no small measure of vengeance.
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