George opened the door and immediately perceived the change in atmosphere. Even in the stale still air of the front office it tasted decidedly less oppressive than the jail cells. Bremer noticed the blood on john's arm and looked at him alarmingly. He pushed past John and went directly to Louis' cell. He was back in the cot, fully surrendered to a deep sleep, as if nothing had happened.
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
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