THE WALKING SEEMED to take forever, but, somehow, Stanton didn’t mind it. He had a lot to think over. Seeing his brother had been unnerving yesterday, but today he felt as though everything had been all right all along.
His memory still was a long way from being complete, and it probably always would be. He could still scarcely recall any real memories of a boy named Martin Stanton, but—and he smiled at the thought—he knew more about him than his brother did, at that.
It didn’t matter. That Martin Stanton was gone. In effect, he had been demolished—what little there had been of him—and a new structure had been built on the old foundation.
And yet, in another way, the new structure was very like what would have developed naturally if the accident so early in life had not occurred.
Stant
