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Author Note: I gave this the title of a quote by Horace and a poem by Wilfred Owen, as my own belief is that no matter how horrible the existence of War – it serves a societal purpose – at least to the powers-that-be. And so I believe that honor should be given to those who follow the wishes of their homeland; it is natural to feel pride in one's country . . .

I don't have anything to do with Star Trek (Enterprise) other than enjoying the universe; and I remember 'Kevin' with fondness . . . someday I hope to meet again . . .

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Twenty-eight years before the mission to the Expanse –

When Madeline Reed was almost twelve years old – her birthday being in the spring of the year – she had the unenviable task of having to take her younger brother Malcolm with her as she went to visit with her best friend, Shannon. The two girls would 'play dolls' together, an activity which the eight year old boy found extremely boring; not even the presence of Kelly, Shannon's younger brother was much of a help. The six year old spent most of his time digging holes in the dirt, and pounding nails in the old lumber that littered the back yard.

It was hoped by the mothers of the children – and Malcolm was informed of the goal most severely – that his better verbal skills would 'rub off' on the younger child. Instead he willfully, and most deliberately, would sit under the wisteria bushes, with his favorite books and read about sailing ships, pirates, cowboys, and the occasional classics like 'Alice in Wonderland'. He was accused of not being friendly when he pointed out to Kelly that simply digging a big hole in the dirt would not lead to fish suddenly appearing, nor would it be possible to 'float a boat' big enough to climb into . . .

It was looking like Malcolm Reed would be fated to find these visits mostly solitary, until one day he was standing in the side yard looking at a tree that kept getting hit by passing cars – his mother had said that it was 'an attractive nuisance'. He wondered how a really ugly hawthorn tree could be considered attractive; then, lifting his eyes, Malcolm realized that he was being looked at by a thin boy sitting on the steps of a front porch of a house across the street. (Years later, no matter that the house was replaced and was only a memory, he remembered in particular the bright eyes and smile of his soon-to-be friend, Kevin, holding a book . . .)

Malcolm walked directly up to the porch. "Hello," he stated without any pretense, "My name is Malcolm. What are you reading?" Actually though, he had already spotted the title; it was his most favorite book at the time, 'Lad, A Dog'.(An old dog-eared copy, but Malcolm already knew that it wasn't the way a book looked that was important to him, but what was inside that counted.) A story about collies – but more importantly something that he could talk to someone about.

(Nobody in Malcolm's family ever talked with him – oh, they'd tell him what to do, and expected him to do it – but that he might have an opinion – that wasn't allowed . . .)

The thin blond-haired boy, briefly smiled and said with a slight Irish accent, "I'm Kevin," and he held the book up so that Malcolm could see it better, and Malcolm, said quickly, "Lad, A Dog – It's a really neat book . . ." Kevin offered a gesture for Malcolm to sit with him on the porch step, and he happily accepted.

Thus began Malcolm's first friendship – over the next year – they spent many hours sitting on that porch or when the weather was bad in Kevin's living room, talking about books and life in general. Kevin was almost two years older, but he told Malcolm that he liked him because he liked to read. Malcolm did too, and sometimes they even talked about serious things like when they found out that the author of 'Lad, A Dog' had been dishonest and acted badly.

The two friends discussed the man's actions (and if he hadn't been deceased two hundred years – their comments might have concerned the author.) "He was a bad person," ventured Malcolm, "and he wrote books that children read . . ." Kevin continued the thought – "If you are going to write children's books, you should be a good person." "Or at least try to be," replied Malcolm, and they moved on to other authors and other books . . .

Malcolm Reed cherished the memory of his first true friendship . . .

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