272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. She traced him by his scent. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. ‘I did not send you a card because in the normal way of things you rarely attend such affairs. He knew she had been weeping.
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