"Let me come with you, Da. Just this once!"
Bill rested a hand on his son's curly head. "You're a mite short for a sailor, my lad."
"I'll grow. Please, Da--I'll be ever so good."
"I know you will." He knelt so that his eyes were level with Will's. The boy stuck his chin out stubbornly, and Bill cupped his cheek in one hand, the skin soft under his calloused fingers. "I'll need you to look after your mum for me. Take good care of her, will you?"
He looked up into his wife's resigned face as Will muttered a sullen assent. Somehow, she managed to find a smile for him. "He always does," she whispered. "He's my good lad."
"I know he is."
***
Bill blinked, and the memory faded. His son--
They tore away Will's shirt, and he ducked his head, powerful muscles flexing and straining uselessly in the downpour.
He does look like me, Bill thought. His features were darker and sharper, like Mary's had been, but the shape of them was his own. The nose had been badly broken once and there were old scars there, laced across the smooth skin.
Oh, my boy, what has the world done to you?