XXXVII
THE LETTER DAVE WROTE
DAVE, of course, was a prisoner. But there was little enough guarding. He seemed out of his mind. He said almost nothing to me, but would sit with his head in his hands and look at me till I got creepy and had to go away. And then, one morning, he was missing.
I am ashamed to say it, but, in some ways, I was glad. I could hardly bear it. Soon I couldn't have. It was not my Dave. It was a tortured, warped and silent spirit. One day I said that we were only one man between us, just in fun, because we had only two arms together. He didn't seem to understand.
"Where did you lose your arm, Dave?"
He looked down at the place a long time,
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