If something had happened between her and Luke, it was not so important
to me. It had nothing to do with what we -- Luke and I -- had. Hard to
explain. Not normal times. World War II. Separations. We never knew where we
would be the next week. Things happened.
But I was upset about the drawing. If she had found my sketch book, or
if someone else had found it and brought it to the library, why hadn't
she tried to return it?
I wasn't going back to find out. Some things are better off not explored,
or so my generation persists in believing.