The summer I graduated from the University of Alabama, Jem broke his arm again and was elected to the Alabama legislature for the first time. Naturally, he had also become a lawyer at the bar, and he and Atticus had renamed the office Finch & Son. To celebrate Jem's political victory, we gathered in Maycomb. Jem and Dill and me, Uncle Jack, Miss Maudie and all the other neighbors, and of course, the omnipresent Aunt Alexandra and Cousin Francis, who was out on bail.
That was the first time I'd seen Dill since he'd come back from the war. Naturally, as soon as he'd heard the news of war he'd signed up. He went to war with a spring in his step and a photograph of me in his pocket. He returned four years later, the picture wrinkled and slightly torn, and hasn't smiled since.
During dinner he winced when people spoke too loudly. His eyes were focused only on his plate, and he responded to questions with grunts and nods. I tried to catch his eye.
After all of the guests left, and Atticus and I were reading the paper together, I asked Atticus about Dill. I told him Dill hadn't been the same since returning from the front.
"Scout, you must understand that some wounds are more than skin deep. Although Dill may have not lost an arm or his life, he definitely left a part of him behind in Europe."
I thought about this. Jem had left a part of himself in the courthouse after Tom Robinson was convicted. Atticus had too. So had I. I had even left a part of myself on the stage at the pageant, when my dreams were interrupted by Mrs. Merriweather's screaming "POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORK." After a few ticks of the clock on the mantel, Atticus looked up.
"Atticus," I said, "wouldn't you say we all leave a bit of ourselves everywhere we go?"
"Certainly, Jean Louise," he said, calling me by the name I go by outside of Maycomb. "But Dill left more than just a bit in France."