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He and his wife listened.
«It's that old man,» said William, «crying.»
«Why?»
«Why does anyone cry? Maybe he's unhappy.»
«If he's still there in the morning,» said his wife in the dark, «call the police.»
William Latting turned away from the window, put out his cigarette, and lay in bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling that flicked off and on a thousand times, silently. «No,» he said at last. «I won't call the police. Not for him.»
«Why not?»
His voice almost whispered. «I wouldn't want to do that. I just couldn't.»
They both lay there and faintly there was a sound of crying and the wind blew and William Latting knew that all he had to do if he wanted to watch the boys wrestling in the icy leaves of morning would be to reach out with his hand and lift the shade and look, and there they would be, far below, wrestling and wrestling, as the dawn came pale in the eastern sky.
With all his heart, soul, and blood he wanted to go out and lie in the leaves with them, and let the leaves bury him deep as he snuffed them in, eyes wet. He could go out there now…
Instead, he turned on his side and could not close his eyes, and could not sleep.
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