I was not healing nearly quickly enough, and so I was forced to stop and see an old friend of mine, Doctor Arthur Cook of New London, Connecticut. Arthur and I had served together during the War of the Rebellion, known now as the Civil War.
His utter shock at how little I had aged over the past five decades was replaced by one of amazement when he realized I was walking around with five large-caliber wounds still healing.
I spent an extremely uncomfortable evening in my old friend’s home, stretched out on his dining table as he drank bourbon, complained about politics and dug the bullets out of my chest.
In the end, he recovered all of them, as well as nearly a dozen more which had stubbornly refused to vacate my body of the past two centuries.
When he asked how I had acquired so much lead, I informed him and spent the better part of the night reliving many of my battles. As dawn broke over the horizon and the first of the sea birds could be heard shouting out their calls, my old friend merely shook his head at me.
“I always knew you were stubborn, Duncan,” Arthur told me. “I didn’t realize you were too stubborn to die.”
Which I suppose, is the truest statement I’ve ever heard about myself.
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