An accident, they called it. Accidents, he thought, were for skinned knees and singed hair, not death.
He avoided Margaret and Frank, assuring them he placed no guilt on their heads. Secretly, he wondered if he did.
When the mother arrived, receiving only remains in place of the son she was searching for, he avoided her too.
Memorial services were held, tears were shed, and repeatedly they muttered how very, very young. He didn't go, writing instead to the wife back home.
Dear Louise, it read, this morning they buried the five-year-old Korean boy I was the proud father of.