ÒMark!Ó Debbie shouted. ÒGrab onto the tree.Ó

ÒDammit,Ó he said. ÒMy footÕs all wet. And itÕs cold, too.Ó

ÒMaybe we better head home now,Ó I said. And I started back.

ÒYou baby, Drew,Ó he said. ÒKindergarten baby wash your face in gravy. I should be the one to say if we go or not.Ó

ÒNo, heÕs right, Mark. ItÕs not safe anymore. Besides, itÕs gettinÕ late,Ó said Debbie.

We headed back. The temperature dropped, and I regretted not wearing a coat. I looked at the cluster of brass stars on my collar and thought that General MacArthur would never show any weakness, so I kept my complaints to myself.

I often lost myself in that private mirror of a world that didnÕt always reflect images accurately. I wanted to be different, special somehow. I felt I was, but I was not sure how. We trudged our way homeward, and I left thoughts of the cold behind.