The lost son

For years it was the image of the cat that haunted his dreams, so that each time he woke up he would experience the same chill, his body on the edge of trembling, until he remembered what the dream was about, but even then he had to play it through, listen to the story again.

He had been in the army, in the early days of the Vietnam War. The incident which kept threading through his dreams had nothing to do with fighting, or the terrible climate, or impossible peasant conditions, or the harsh barkings of an unknown language, or the traces of blood they walked carefully past lest they trip off a landmine.

 

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