TITAN
Eric Steele

Many thousands of years after God granted Adam and Eve life and free will, man developed societies, engineering, weapons, and eventually high schools. Unfortunately, that is where this story really begins. It’s not the best starting point and it’s certainly cliché. But as with God’s story, this one begins with a lonely soul. He is driving to school.

The high school years coincide with the height of adolescence coalescing in the loneliest, most awkward, and isolating point in a young person’s life. The discovery of one’s individuality competes with the drive to be accepted by the masses. But the secret is that everyone is going through the same thing and they just won’t admit it. For sure, though, no one leaves high school as the same person who entered.

Everyone wears a mask in high school. Few are comfortable enough with themselves to expose their real selves in public. Some get to choose their identity: athlete, jock, cool, clown, smart, etc. But more often than not, your “identity” is thrust upon you: geek, fag, wimp, ugly, stupid, and so on. Only your friends and family come close to knowing the real you, but there is always a part they will never know.

Eric Steele wanted only to be past all of it. Every day at 7 a.m. he was on the road driving to school. Every day he packed some books in his locker and some in his bag. Every day his first period class was World War I and II. And every day he dreamed about driving past the school and continuing up the road to… anywhere else.

He had never told anyone about that dream least of all his parents. Somewhere along the line, adults forget what adolescence was like. Tim and Nancy Steele had. They had already survived the adolescent struggle, found their identity, and forgot there was ever a time when they didn’t know. They chalked up the uncomfortable experiences of youth as exactly that—youth. Kids being kids. They didn’t remember the change—the act of becoming something different from what they once were. No one who figures it out wants to remember they were ever unsure.

Eric would. For the rest of his life, Eric would remember his eighteenth birthday in March and everything that followed. He would remember how he changed.

The dreams came first. For months, Eric had been having the kind of dreams that you wake from in a sweat but cannot remember anything about the moment after waking. He didn’t attribute the dreams to anything unusual. Strange dreams and restless sleep came and went. This had lasted longer than any stretch before, though.

Maybe he wasn’t getting enough sleep. That was certainly possible. He stayed up later and later for no real reason other than to be awake. He watched TV, surfed the web, and read books. Finally, when his eyelids were too heavy to bear, he crawled into bed with Calvin, his cat, exhausted but not tired. He didn’t sleep straight through the night, either. His was a fitful sleep, complete with tossing and turning and long hours spent staring at the ceiling freshly visible as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

While he did not remember what the dreams were about or any events that occurred in them, he knew that they didn’t frighten him. They were not nightmares. Even so, they were not happy dreams. He sensed (not a memory exactly) that he was hurt or in pain in these dreams, but that seemed unlikely. You don’t feel pain in dreams. Or do you? Eric had a dream when he was younger that The Shape from the Halloween movies was after him and when The Shape caught up, he stabbed Eric. Eric clearly remembered the knife going into his arm and being surprised that it hurt. Later, he reflected that it felt kind of like a pin prick—nothing like actually being stabbed probably felt like, but there was pain. He woke up clutching his arm, but the pain had been lost between the dream and consciousness.

Well, there was. When he awoke from the dreams, he felt hot and feverish, and his skin pulsed like it usually did after a fresh burn. But this burn was all over—his skin pulsed with heat from his head to his toes. It always faded quickly enough, but the fact that it was there at all made him wonder. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned this to his parents or friends. It was just a phase, right?

Maybe he’d mention it to Jim if he called, but that was unlikely. His best friend, Jim McNulty, had been away at military school for all of senior year and Eric had not spoken to him in months. Eric felt bad for Jim. He had to spend his last year of high school away from his friends and across the country—alone. His grades had sucked, though, and his parents warned him what would happen if they didn’t improve. They didn’t and Jim was sent to Wyoming. Ah, well. High school had been hell the past couple of years, why not a little bit more?

As Eric pulled into the St. Paul’s Academy parking lot, he felt like he was in one of those uncertain adolescent places. In between. He was not where he wanted to be and wherever he wanted to go seemed so far off. It was too much. Everything felt heavy and rough. Smiles were hard to come by. An incredible weight sat on his chest and grabbed a cold beer; it planned on staying awhile.

It was beyond uncomfortable. It was agony. His whole world had just been turned upside down and he couldn’t find a way to fix it. Mostly because it couldn’t be fixed. It was his destiny. It had to be. A thing like this doesn’t just happen to everyone. Teenage angst? Yeah, but Eric couldn’t see the forest for the trees. He was seventeen, almost eighteen, and he couldn’t see much past himself.

School began at 8:10 a.m. and the lot was pretty busy by 7:30. It was probably busier than usual, too, since the year’s last cold snap just ended. In the nation’s capital, March is an “either…or” month—it can either start to warm up into spring or cling to the last of winter. There hadn’t been a day over forty-five degrees in months, but today it was fifty eight with a chance of seventy by dismissal.

By senior year the cliques were established, unbreakable. Such was high school. Eric recognized everyone he passed. They were mostly seniors. Since the parking lot was restricted to juniors and seniors, and mostly seniors had all of the spots, most of these people were Eric’s classmates. Lucky him. A few people waved or nodded and Eric returned the gesture. Acquaintances mostly. He slipped his “mask” on early this morning.

On this day, Eric lucked out because he got to his parking spot before either of the people who parked on either side of him did. He had been getting pretty pissed off to find Erin Saxon’s Volkswagen Beetle on the line of his spot every morning. Her car was a toy and she couldn’t park straight.

Eric’s space was in the last row of the lot against the line of trees separating the school from Duke Street below. He opened his door and looked at the line to see if he was straight. Of course he was. He had learned to drive in a big, lumbering Dodge Durango; if he couldn’t park a little four-door sedan after that, he didn’t deserve a license.

Eric pressed his radio off, flipped the air off, readjusted the dials back to default, and turned the ignition off. He clipped his keys to one of his belt loops and closed the door. Sometimes he thought he had OCD, but it wasn’t like he washed his hands compulsively.

A cool morning breeze soothed him. He needed it. The lack of sleep had left him irritable, on edge, and just plain weary. Eric stood a towering five feet four, with brown hair, glasses, and a moderate build. Beneath his well-coiffed uniform of slacks and a golf shirt, Eric was stocky, not a beanpole. He played hockey, which lent itself to muscled legs, broad shoulders, and thick forearms. Eric had all of them, but proportionally, they just weren’t as impressive as they were on bigger people.

His heavy thoughts and exhaustion flew away with the wind and he felt better. Eric was not an outdoorsy kind of guy, but he enjoyed the simplicity of nature all the same. A cool breeze. A beautiful view. Colorful foliage. All that jazz. The academy sat on a hill overlooking Duke Street and nearby businesses, train tracks, and more. His eyes caught the horizon. In the distance, Eric thought he could make out the peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Beyond them, there was more. More than just school day after day. To Eric, whatever was out there was freedom. Something bigger. Better.

No one wakes up in the morning and wants to be Average Joe. But Eric felt that something inside of him was trying to get out. He was better than this. He was supposed to be more. He needed only to discover it.

As quickly as his demons were silenced by the wind and his senses grasped at his destiny, they spoke up again as he approached the school. As he observed all of the various cliques, Eric missed belonging. For as lonely as high school could be, having good friends made it bearable. But without them, it was like swimming the ocean without a float. Some days it was like going over Niagara Falls without a barrel.

Even worse, some of the people that got to belong pissed him off. Antonio Juarez, a tall gangly douche bag with a pedophile’s smirk, happily joked around with his friends as Eric passed. When they first got to St. Paul’s, Eric hardly said a word to the kid. But in sophomore year math, Antonio began calling Eric out in the middle of quizzes and tests. “Eric Steele, be quiet, man!”

The teacher, Mrs. Frank, addressed the situation by glancing up from her papers. Discipline in the educational system at work. It happened more and more. Antonio started doing it during regular class time. Eric would be taking notes and talking with his buddy, Steve, when Antonio would throw paper at him. Since Antonio frequently missed, Eric pretended not to notice. Soon enough, he hit Eric in the head. It was paper, so it didn’t hurt, but he finally snapped, “What the hell is your problem?”

Antonio grinned at him with a mouth full of braces and slimy spittle. He looked like he was about to drool. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the paper that you threw at me, asshole,” Eric said, holding it up.

“Hey,” Mrs. Frank finally stepped in. “Let’s watch the language.”

Eric didn’t care. He laughed. “Language? This kid’s a complete asshole,” he said dragging out asssshoollle, “and you’re worried about me? Can you deal with the real problem, please?”

Mrs. Frank’s jaw locked with embarrassment. The class was stunned into silence, watching at the exchange. Antonio still wore his stupid grin. The same one he’ll probably wear when he molests little girls, though that one will have more drool.

“Eric, that was incredibly disrespectful,” Mrs. Frank said. Eric knew where it was heading. He was disrespectful, but the teachers generally construed anything they didn’t like as disrespectful. It was a little bit like how courts used “reasonable” to justify rulings on anything under the sun.

“Sign this detention. Now.”

Eric crossed his arms and leaned back. He never flouted authority, but this had gone on long enough. His parents taught him to respect his elders, the police, and other authority figures. Eric always followed the rules. His uniform was always clean, his shirt always tucked in, his hair always brushed, and his shoes always complied with the “white tennis shoes” rule. He always turned in his homework on time, he studied for exams (mostly), and he followed each and every other goddamn rule set out for him. And this bitch was going to ignore Antonio, who (coincidentally, had a fairly wealthy father) yelled out Eric’s name during exams, threw paper at him, and was just an all-around asshole, because Eric called her out.

“No.” The word hung there for a while as Eric looked Mrs. Frank right in the eye. “No. I won’t sign it. You want me to sign it? Then send me down to Mr. Gibson where I can explain to him how this asshole… because that’s what he is… disrupts class every day, annoys everyone, throws paper at me, and you let him get away with it.” Eric grabbed his bag and stood up. “Let’s do that.”

Mrs. Frank was a young teacher in her mid to late twenties. She had poofy blonde hair and very sensitive skin that turned a bright shade of magenta when she was flustered—it was neon red right then. She was still young enough to have half a memory of what high school was like. She still cared if her students liked her. As her green eyes welled with tears, Eric wished he had said something a little more apologetic than, “Oh, C’mon… I’m the one getting screwed here.”

“GET OUT!” Mrs. Frank screeched hysterically. “OUT OF MY CLASS!”

Eric sighed and walked to the door. He glanced back at Steve who was hiding a big-ass grin that seemed to say Oh, shit. Everyone else was doing much the same.

But not Antonio.

No, his disturbing grin was as big as ever. At that moment, Eric really wanted to break his face. Anything to get that smarmy smirk off his ass-ugly, bug face. He thought, with biting reproach from his conscience, that this crap is what set off the Columbine kids. The difference being, when they finally stood up they did so with guns and bombs. Eric clapped himself on the back for taking the teacher to task instead.

Antonio waved. Eric tossed him the ball of paper that he’d thrown. “That’s yours.” Eric threw a glance at Mrs. Frank, who lost the war on tears when a bubbly tear rolled to the edge of her mouth. Eric left.

Mr. Gibson had a son on the hockey team, so he knew Eric. That was partly why Eric wasn’t afraid to go see him. The other part was that he knew he didn’t do anything wrong. Losing his temper with the teacher, maybe, but Antonio didn’t just terrorize him; he had a lot of other targets. And since other teachers weren’t as oblivious as Mrs. Frank, Mr. Gibson knew Antonio Juarez well. Additionally, Eric had never been to Mr. Gibson for anything before, except for an unshaven complaint by another teacher. So when Eric told him what happened, Mr. Gibson shook his head with a slight smile. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Yeah, I get Antonio in here a few times a week… once a day if he’s in a fresh mood,” Gibson said as he sat back, “but you can’t talk to Mrs. Frank that way, Hoss.”

Eric didn’t care, but he nodded anyway. “I know. I’m sorry. I just got so fed up I exploded.”

“Which we all do,” Gibson said. “So, if you apologize to Mrs. Frank, I think I can smooth that detention over, hmm?”

“Yes, sir.” Eric knew that Mr. Gibson was former Army and he was big on respect. He threw “sirs” at him all the time to feed his ego.

Eric apologized at the end of that day. He told Mrs. Frank basically what he told Mr. Gibson about the “exploding” and she actually understood. She apologized too.

As for Antonio, Eric and Steve dealt with him. They didn’t hurt him, although Eric wanted to. Instead they devised tiny tortures. Steve used to be a boy scout and could tie all kinds of knots. Whenever they sat close enough to Antonio, Steve would apply that skill to Antonio’s backpack and desk. Once the knot was so tough, at the end of class when Antonio tugged on his bag to leave, he pulled his desk out from under himself and tripped over it into a heap. So, maybe they hurt him a little.

Eric’s favorite revenge involved Antonio’s blazer and jelly donuts. Every Friday in homeroom, someone was assigned to bring donuts. Eric grabbed an extra jelly donut, wrapped it in a napkin, and placed it in his backpack. In math, Eric slipped the donut, sans napkin, into one of Antonio’s pockets while his blazer hung on the back of his chair. Two weeks later, and two donuts later, Antonio had a total of three donuts in his blazer: one in each outer pocket and one in the inner lining pocket. For the one in the inner pocket, Eric made sure to squeeze a little of the jelly out. Somehow, Antonio didn’t notice them for at least a month. When he did, it was miraculously in math class. By then the fried batter had molded green and the jelly congealed. Antonio dunked his hand into one of the pockets and pulled it right back out again when it touched the soupy goo inside. He yelped. Eric and the rest of the class laughed and then laughed even harder as he discovered the other two, now pools of goop, in his blazer pockets.

“Aw, shit, man… I keep this thing in my car…” Antonio groaned. The laughter intensified.

When Antonio spun to look at Eric, he found him wearing a big grin and looking him in the eye. Eric calmed down long enough to say, “Sucks to be you, huh, Fuckface?”

Eric remembered Antonio’s defeated look well. He always would. The thrill of seeing that the son of a bitch finally had nothing to say and could do nothing was intoxicating. Fuck you. I win. In real life, there are no definite victories. Antonio still messed with him on occasion but not as frequently. And when he did, Eric gave as good as he got.

Of course, in the end, seeing Antonio laughing and screwing around with his friends made Eric feel like Antonio really won. He still had his friends, as vain and fake as they all were. In the morning when Antonio got to school, he had a place and people to go to. Antonio could still smile that toothy, braces-filled grin. It took Eric every ounce of strength just to maintain a neutral expression. Eric’s place was gone. He was in limbo and his friends totaled two, with one gone away.

Fortunately, his only remaining friend, Drew Goodson, pulled into the parking lot as Eric passed. Drew saw Eric and honked the horn of his creaky ten-year-old Volvo at him. He turned into his good spot against the concrete median with only one car beside his. Eric wished he had Drew’s spot instead of the one next to ditzy Erin.

Drew climbed out of his car and flashed a goofy smile as he gathered his keys, some pens, and his wallet out of the cup holders. Eric crossed the main path that bisected the parking lot to come alongside Drew’s car. He noticed that the interior was messy, as usual, and he quietly sighed at the sight of a rumpled can of baby wipes behind the passenger seat. They were for, as Drew put it, “When I get a ‘handy’ or BJ from some chick.”

If any word described Drew, it was “awkward.” He walked deliberately, like a duck, and his arms dangled like he had scoliosis. His mannerisms were like “C-3PO: the Human.” But damn if he wasn’t funny.

“Didja see Magnum P.I. last night on ‘TV Land’?” Drew asked as he closed his door and came around to the trunk.

“No, I watch good things,” Eric said.

“Ha. Right. Didja know that Higgins is Robin Masters? Total shock to me.”

Eric smirked. He and Drew obsessed over the minutiae of TV and film. “I think my dad told me that once. Did you know that the final season of Magnum, P.I. wasn’t actually supposed to happen? Magnum was supposed to die in the last episode of the previous season, but the fans were pissed off so they brought him back and made it all out to be like a coma or something like that.”

This was good. As long as they were shooting the shit about BS like this, Eric wouldn’t think about…

There she was.

Eric tried to avoid looking at her. It hurt too much. But every now and again he’d look this way or that way and there she’d be. So. Fucking.Gorgeous!

Her long, shiny, black hair glided down her back like an obsidian waterfall. Her lips were pouty and pink. Her cheeks were naturally rosy and round like a chipmunk’s. Her body was tight but proportionally curved. Even in the unflattering girls’ uniform—a feminine version of the guy’s golf shirt and a burgundy-pleated skirt (supposed to be worn no higher than an inch above the knee but rarely practiced)—her breasts pressed against the shirt in exactly the right way and sometimes when she leaned over, the bottom edge of her ass cheeks dared to poke out. They never did, but somehow that made it hotter.

Melanie Picolo…

Eric tried not to let her into his mind—she never left—because when he did, every memory, every kiss, every touch, every hug, every whisper, every caress, every grope, and every first experience they shared together invaded. So did the hate. He imagined someone putting a charge of C4 on the wall of his mind and blowing it in, letting all of her back in when he was still trying to scrape her out. Every kiss they had shared was gouged into his mind like a jagged, rusted corkscrew and trying to pull them free was agony. Now he simply tried to lock that door of his mind. The memories weren’t gone, but he tried to hide them.

It never worked.

Times like this—seeing her, hearing her, hearing about her—tossed a match under the door and ignited a spark of torment that immolated him. And it was worse when he became conscious of the memories, stabbing him like broken glass. He felt disgusted with himself. You shouldn’t feel this way! You’re a stalker! You’re Markie Mark from “Fear”!!!

The pain, the guilt, and the rage only became worse when he realized that she would always be there. Always whispering in his ear, I Love You. Always kissing him. Always moaning as he touched her in ways she liked. Always clutching him tight as he found that one little spot… She was his first date... kiss (French, too)... grope… Love… You never forget that person and Eric would never forget Melanie. Not ever. No matter how hard he tried.

He would never forget the end.

And there she was. Maybe fifty yards away, probably less. Sweet… tight… Melanie. Clutching her books tight to her chest. She laughed as someone made a joke. Great. Eric hoped it was funny. Fuckin’ hi-larious. Who was it anyway? Oh, right. That douchebag Kyle Chester. He wasn’t funny. He was just gay but didn’t know it yet. And dammit, he’s got her laughing again. They were all laughing now. Melanie, Kyle, Sophia, Kathryn, Blake, and Trey. They laughed at Eric’s jokes once. Not anymore.

Drew glanced over his shoulder and found where Eric was looking. When Drew looked, Eric tried to stare at something—anything—else. He’d gawk at pigs humping if it extinguish those awful memories.

“How’s that going?” Drew normally avoided the subject, but something on Eric’s face must have inspired breaking taboo.

Eric picked at loose skin on his lip. “Fine.” There was an unspoken it’s actually not, but let’s move on.

Drew moved on. He closed his trunk and adjusted his backpack as he walked up alongside Eric. There was a fleeting moment of silence just barely noticed by either of them. Drew filled it by saying, “Sam was over yesterday. She and Cynthia were already looking at prom dresses. Two months in advance if you’re keeping score at home.”

Eric smiled and didn’t mean it when he replied, “I bet Sam would fill out a prom dress fine.” The smile grew wider and this time he did mean it when he said, “So would Cynthia.”

“Shut the fuck up. That’s my sister. Dick.”

Eric actually laughed and felt it come from a real place. It was great and he wanted more. So they talked and laughed and ragged on each other like guys do. Eric savored the one best friend he had left and longed to have his other one as well.

He left Melanie’s happy, laughing posse behind him not realizing that soon they’d be the least of his problems.

And before the school doors closed behind him, Eric cocked his head and caught one more glimpse of the horizon out beyond the tracks, the highway, and the mountains. His sense of more swelled inside of him again…

“Hey, Steele… keep it movin’!” Someone piped up from the gathering line of students crowding behind him to get inside.

“Yeah, yeah…”

* * *

The hallways at St. Paul’s Academy reminded Eric a lot of the Beltway around DC inasmuch as it was chaotic. There were students leaning into narrow lockers along the wall, others made up a second layer that stood slightly away from the lockers talking with friends, and finally there were the assholes blocking the remaining three feet in the middle of the hall to pass. Usually these folks were seniors who thought they had been Tefloned by God to do anything. Some days Eric wanted to just lower his shoulders and charge down the middle. Whoever got in the way would get bopped.

Of course he never did that or made a fuss about fifteen-foot tall Simon Calloway standing in everyone’s way. Eric cursed them under his breath and kept moving. He wasn’t afraid of the bigger guys like Simon. He just knew that to straight out fight them was foolhardy. But in his head he had mental battle plans just in case. It was the kind of thing his dad would do. For instance, Simon was such a blowhard that he’d most likely try to smash Eric in one hit. He’d use that massive size and brute force God gave him to end it quickly. The key to Eric’s attack would be in knowing that and understanding that no one expects him to win. If he could just hurt the big bastard or get him on his knees, he would win by default because most people think Simon should just pummel him. Simon wouldn’t be doing much pummeling though after the shot to the neck Eric would give him. As Simon wrestled with how difficult breathing had become, Eric would go to work on his gut or maybe take his legs out. From there, it would be an even fight. Was it cheating? Maybe. But it’s not like they’d be boxing. There were no rules in real fights. Even the alleged unbreakable “balls” rule had its applications when necessary. Eric figured a six-foot-six football player versus a five-foot-four 4th line hockey player was reason enough.

But Eric knew that even if he did start something, nothing would change. He would be the bad guy. No one would rally around him and cheer like in the movies. Even though everyone hates it when people rudely block their way in the hall, Simon was too powerful. He belonged to that group—yes, the group that everyone knows and many other films and books have depicted in much the same way. Popular. So called because they get all their friends to laugh at their jokes and invite themselves to exclusive parties that everyone else hears about but cannot attend. Usually, it’s the same crowd that works at the kitty litter plant after college or for Mommy or Daddy. Then, they have no power or influence. But in high school, they’re unstoppable. One would have better luck suing the federal government.

It was one thing dealing with those people on a daily basis when you could bitch about it to your friends later, but now Eric couldn’t. He only had one friend to bitch to and they shared no classes. And Drew still talked to the old group. He didn’t sit with them at lunch or get invited out with them, but they talked. Before, Eric was Drew’s tenuous link to them, but now they engaged him. As if to rub it in more.

For Drew’s part, he didn’t really like them much. Not sincewhat had happened, especially. But some of them were still partly friends with his sister and Samantha Mitchell. They all grew up together. Drew lived in the same neighborhood as Kat Dawn, so he talked to them and played the “nice” card, but he knew what had happened. He saw Eric’s face earlier and he’d seen that look other times. They should’ve killed him. That would have been better than what they did—what Melanie did.

Eric stood beside Drew’s locker on the first floor and watched Simon’s gaggle of goons yell at freshman, block girls and poke at them, and laugh about it. Theirs was a unique humor in that no one but them found it funny.

Drew lugged a thick English textbook out of his locker and slid it into his backpack. He looked up at Eric. “Have you heard from Jim?”

“No. Not since a little after Christmas,” Eric said. He still frowned in Simon’s general direction.

Drew slammed the locker several times. “Fuckin’ lock. It never… why’s that? He was calling all the time first semester.”

“Sounded like things were getting harder for him there,” Eric said, finally looking at Drew. “How would you feel if you were yanked out of your home and school for your senior year?”

“I’d never have smashed Tommy Silverman’s face into the glass at hockey practice, so I guess I’ll never know,” Drew smirked.

“Dammit, do we have to argue about this every day? That wasn’t why. His parents thought he wasn’t concentrating on his school enough or some crap like that,” Eric said. “He was getting a lot of C’s. Overall, his GPA wasn’t too bad. I bet if he’d gotten to take the World War classes with us, he could’ve brought it up big time. Mr. Mikhail liked him.”

They started towards the stairs and Drew shook his head. “Maybe. But those classes are electives and worth like a quarter of what everything else is. I don’t think it would’ve helped that much…”

“It woulda helped some. That’s enough. His parents were just pissed at all the C’s, I guess. From what he told me, he’s doing even worse now. You can’t just take someone from their home like that. Bastards.”

Drew opened the door into the stairwell. “You sound more broken up about it than he is.”

“You guys are all I have.” Eric thought of saying more, but that seemed to be enough.

Drew had nothing to say to that. He just nodded. Looking up the stairs, he finally said, “Well, I gotta get to first period. See you at lunch?”

Eric thought about it. “I think we’ve got the same lunch today. So yeah. Later.”

Drew took off up the stairs and disappeared as the door closed. Eric remained for a moment. He thought of Jim. Of Drew. And of Melanie. Eric glanced back at Simon and realized that, like Antonio, he envied the tall bastard. For them, things wouldn’t change until graduation, if then. But for him, things were already so hard.

Eric would later remember thinking that and laugh.

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