He was happy. He knew he was happy. Two of his dearest friends were 'just married'. After seven long years, he had achieved something amounting to justice for another. He had laid to rest the ghosts that had left his governor grief-stricken, and promotion was on the horizon. Yes, he was happy. At least he felt he should be happy. He deserved to be happy. Surely, he did? Just for today. Just for an hour.

'Morse? You coming?'

The happy couple strode out into the sunset and the jubilant kerfuffle of the reception hall followed. Dorothea stood beside him, a hand upon his shoulder. She looked on him with an expectant smile.

He nodded, 'In a moment.'

Yes, happy. But then why did he feel as if he were on the cusp of dying? As if this were the end of being itself. As if, at any moment, he would breath out and would never be able to breath in again. An image flashed through his mind, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He saw himself lying on the dancefloor: he was clutching at his chest, and his face was a paroxysm of fear and desperation. Morse reached a tentative hand out for Dorothea, but it fell through the air. She was gone. He replaced his hands over his eyes. Boy meets girl. Girl marries boy. Boy and girl live happy-ever-after. These were the scenes that white-out at the end of films. Roll credits, final curtain, round of applause. And it felt hollow. No. It was something worse than hollow. Much worse. It was as if he had been kicked to the ground. As if he might still be kicked to the ground. Kicked to the ground and have his entrails ripped out. They would wither and wriggle as they were burnt before his fading eyes. The fate of traitors. But he wasn't a traitor. He was loyal. He had always been loyal.

Then why did everyone leave him? There had to be something wrong with him. To lose one friend could be folly. To lose two friends looks like carelessness. But how many friends, colleagues, lovers had there been now? How many people had left for more prosperous pastures? It wasn't a coincidence; it was a pattern.

That's what people do, Morse.

Yes. Yes, he knew that. They grow. They move on. That was nothing to do with him.

But what if it had been to do with him? What if he was one of those people who could never satisfy others? If he were enough, his friends wouldn't look elsewhere. They would have everything they could ever need here, in Oxford. When he had been offered the promotion in London, he had chosen to stay with his friends. And the Thursdays weren't just friends, they were like family. They are family. Morse confessed to it in some private corner of his soul. The Thursdays were his family. But Fred Thursday has made it clear that, if he had ever seen Morse that way, he didn't see him that way anymore.

"I can't take you with me. I'd like to but I can't."

If Fred thought of him as family, he would have found a way to bring Morse with him to Carshall: "I've got to think of Win, Joanie, getting Sam back up on his feet."

No, he wasn't family. There was something wrong with him. There always had been something wrong with him. Everyone has always told him as much. If anyone had seen the good in him, it had been Thursday. But, in the end, even he hadn't been able to overlook Morse's failures.

"Why don't you pick up the bloody phone like a normal person?"

A normal person. He'd always felt 'other'. But, in all his years, Morse had never been able to put his finger on what it was inside him that made him other. What was his intrinsic difference? 'You were always a strange one,' said Gwen. 'Filled with your sweaty, little secrets.'

'Don't listen to them. Those boys can't see beyond the end of their nose. You're special, Endeavour. You always have been.' His mother had said that. But then, what mother doesn't think of her son as more special than the rest? But he'd always remembered it, and, for a moment, his governor had made him feel as though his mother's words might have been true after all.

He was no good at communicating his needs - his thoughts, his feelings. He knew that. Thursday, Strange, Trulove, they had shown him that. He knew he didn't think in the way normal people do. He knew he got absorbed in things and drank too much. He fidgeted and missed the obvious and stayed quiet longer than he ever should do. He knew, he did. But if anyone had come to accept these flaws in him. If anyone made him feel like these weren't flaws but a normal part of being human, it had been Thursday.

"Why don't you pick up the bloody phone like a normal person?"

I was lonely and worried and wanted to see you . That's what he should have said. But as ever, he'd failed to speak up. He fought always to tell the truth – to expose the truth – to everyone. Except to those people for whom the truth mattered most. When did he stop? Did he ever start? He would need to start if he was going to stop the few people that did remain in his life from leaving.

He heard a cheer go up from outside. In the reception hall, Elton John's 'Rocketman' spun on. Miss Frazil – Dorothea – she was still here. Max, too. He had to find a way to keep them close. He had to keep someone – anyone – close.

An intense white heat all of a sudden flared through the front of his skull. A bleached cow skull in the desert. These were not the pastures Jakes had described. His shoulders ached and his stomach throbbed. He couldn't remember what being well felt like. Why didn't he tell her that he loved her? He had done, hadn't he? He had in everything but those words. The pain in his head flourished down the side of his face before burrowing behind his eyeball. And, like a carnation, the fever in his stomach blossomed and angry red. He loved her.

Sit down.

Morse dropped into one of the chairs that lined the dance floor.

Calm down. You're overtired.

I'm not. Everyone is leaving me and there's not a thing I can do to stop it.

Morse pressed a shaking hand over his face. A feeble attempt at crushing back the pain that stomped its feet and threatened to crush him. Deep breath. Go and join the others. But in that moment Morse realised: he didn't think he could ever look at Jim the same way again. Nor Joan. He would only be able to see what he had let get away. And Mrs. Thursday. The replacement mother he'd almost had. Then there was Thursday himself. Morse could never say what he now knew about him. Go and join the others, Morse. He felt sick to his stomach. Rolling back and forth upon the deck of a ship. He can never let on to what he knows. Morse! Go and join the others. You'll look like a freak again. And he can never tell Joan that he loved her – that he loves her still.

He needed air.

How was he going to explain to Thursday that he had got his savings back without exposing what he knew about the fate of Big Pete. Another wave of pain came crashing through his skull, his shoulder. Maybe he could leave the bag somewhere where Thursday would find it. But Thursday wasn't stupid, he'd surely know it had been him who got it back. He was one of the only people to know that it had been taken in the first place.

Morse, get up!

Morse stood.

. . .

Out on the road, Fred pulled Win closer to him. Bleary-eyed, the pair waved Joan and Jim off onto their honeymoon. The start of the rest of their life. 'Well,' she smiled, blotting beneath her eyes with her cotton handkerchief, 'that's our little girl gone.'

'Certainly is,' said Fred. 'No better man for her.'

'Except her father,' poked Win. Then, lowering her voice, 'And maybe one other.'

Fred attempted a smile, but the lift never quite made it to his lips. There had been a time when both he and Winifred had hoped Morse might be the one for Joan. She deserved an honest man, and Morse needed a good home. Fred and Win had been more than ready to give him that home. But for some reason or another, the boy had never come through, even after Thursday had given Morse his blessing.

'Do you think that's why he didn't come to the ceremony?' Win whispered after a moment.

'No,' said Thursday. His voice waved but he became resolute. 'No, Morse had made Strange a promise. The only reason he'd not keep that promise is if he was already keeping a bigger promise to somebody else.' Fred stared off in the direction Joan had driven. The car was gone. 'And he came in the end. That's all that matters.'

The guests - having thrown their petals and cheered the newlyweds - were beginning to turn to Fred and Win for direction.

'Suppose we'd better go in,' said Win giving Fred a squeeze. 'Get the rest of this party started.'

'Sounds like a good idea to me,' said Fred.

The couple led the way back into the reception hall. Despite the diminishing sunlight, it took a moment for their eyes to adjust to shadow inside. Paul Anka's 'Puppy Love' lilted in the heavy summer breeze. Half-eaten cake and empty champagne glasses littered the tables and the lights popped and dance in time to the music. All seemed to be right with the world. But at the edge of the dance floor...

The DJ and two waitresses were crouched around a figure lying prone. 'Oh gracious!' Win seized her husband's arm. 'Has someone been taken with the heat?'

Fred had already unravelled himself from Win's grip and was making out across the room. He called out to the little group as he neared them. 'Everything alright?'

The DJ looked up. 'The guy just fainted.' His eyes twitched between Fred, the figure on the floor, and the crowd beginning to congregate at the door. Fred knew this was his cue to take over. 'I'm a policeman. Let me have a look.'

The waitresses stood up with the DJ revelling the victim.

'Morse?'

Fred was spurred into action. He dropped to his bagman's side, eyes flickering over his inert form. 'Morse?' He gave Morse's shoulder a shake. His bespeckled face was grey. Fred couldn't remember if Morse had been off-colour when he got here. His coppery fringe had fallen across his veiled eyes and now stuck to his damp brow. Fred brushed it back before taking Morse's face in his hands. 'Son, can you hear me?' He scanned Morse's face and hands for some sort of twitch or flutter. Win dropped down at his side. 'Fred, what's happened?'

'What did happen?' said Thursday locking eyes with the DJ.

The DJ gave an uneasy shrug. 'It's like I said. He fainted. He was sitting one of those chairs.' He nodded to the chairs lining the wall of the dance hall. 'Next thing anyone knew, he's on the floor.'

'When was this?'

A waitress stammered under Thursday's accusatory glare. 'A-about a minute-and-a-half, may-maybe two-minutes, ago.'

Thursday looked to the less timid of the two waitresses. 'There is a man outside. Short. Spectacles. Name's DeBryn. He's a doctor.' The girl nodded she understood and took off through the crowd.

Fred took hold of Morse's wrist and pressed it into Win's hand. 'Take his pulse. I'm going to check him over.' Win nodded. Morse's hand was cold in hers. Her heart fluttered but she pushed passed her nervousness and began counting the beats that ticked there. 'We should have known something was wrong when he didn't show up at the church,' she lamented.

Fred was going through Morse's pockets. 'He hasn't been drinking, has he?'

'Not that I've seen,' said Jakes. Jakes' policeman instinct had taken hold of him. He's seen a crowd and pushed to the front of it. 'What happened?'

'DJ says he fainted. Nobody saw him go, though.'

'Is he sick?'

'Hundred-and-five,' said Win.

'A bit high but not too bad.' Fred pressed a palm to Morse's forehead. 'He's a bit clammy. Let's get his jacket off.'

Win tucked a palm beneath Morse's head as Jakes and Thursday stripped Morse's blazer from his shoulders. It was her that noticed. 'Dad?'

Fred looked up. She bit her lip and nodded at the jacket in his hands. Fred looked down at it but couldn't see it.

'The shoulder,' said Jakes. He took the jacket from Thursday and pushes his fingers through a great slash in the fabric. The three of them looked back down at Morse. His shirt seemed to be intact. But even through the linen the beginnings of a bloody bruise could be seen blossoming down his back.

'God! What have you been up to now?' gritted out Thursday.

'Fred?' The figure of Doctor DeBryn stood silhouetted in the doorway, Gladstone bag in hand. 'What can I do?'

'It's Morse. He fainted. He's got these injuries and he's not waking up.'

DeBryn moved as swift as his little legs permitted him to the group on the floor. Jakes had a hold of Morse's jacket and Fred rubbed nervous circles between Morse's shoulders. A memory from DeBryn's medical-school days flashed through his mind: a trick used to get chocking children to breath.

'How long has he been out?' said DeBryn, kneeling beside them. He pulled a stethoscope from his bag.

'Two or three minutes?' hedged Thursday.

'More like four now,' piped Win.

'Not the cheeriest of news,' DeBryn mumbled. Win's face screwed up. 'God, we should have noticed.'

'It's alright, Mrs. Thursday. Our Morse always springs back,' said DeBryn. He put the stethoscope in his ears and pressed the end to Morse's back.

'Doctor, do you see?' Thursday nodded at the bruise beneath Morse's shirt.

'Yes, I see.' DeBryn moved the stethoscope around a few more times before removing it from his ears. 'Breathing's clear. Heartbeat's regular, if a bit heavy. He sounds a bit sloshy, though.'

'What does that mean?'

'I won't know 'til I turn him over.'

Win shuffled aside as DeBryn moved to Morse's head. 'I hate to ask this, but has he been drinking?'

Thursday shrugged. 'Jakes says no, and I can't smell it on him.'

'Right. At least that doesn't complicate matters.'

DeBryn ran his fingers across each of the vertebrae in Morse's neck before sweeping his hands through his hair. He gave a satisfied nod, and the three men turned him over.

'Oh, God, Fred!' Win's hands flew to her mouth and tears sprung to her eyes.

The men saw it too. Three – four – purple-brown bruises blotching out Morse's pale abdomen. 'Someone's kicked him,' said Peter. This wasn't a question. 'Doctor?' Fred whispered. DeBryn gave no immediate answer. He muttered a small apology under his breath as he teased Morse's shirt tails from his trousers. He rolled the fabric up to Morse's waist and then: 'Yes. Yes, I'd say so. Quite deliberately.'

Jakes cursed under his breath and Win turned her eyes to the ceiling. Only Fred looked on. He took his boy's face in his hands again, palming his cheek. 'Come on. Up you get. Stop playing silly buggers,' he whispered.

DeBryn had replaced the stethoscope in his ears and listened to each of the bruises in turn.

'What's the prognosis, Doc? Should we phone for an ambulance,' piped Jakes.

'I already did,' replied DeBryn. 'I got Dorothea to.'

'Is he bleeding?' said Fred balling and unbaling his fits. Peter couldn't tell if the Inspector was chaffing at his own uselessness or broiling to fight whoever had done this to his bagman. 'I think the worst has stopped,' said DeBryn.

'Then what's the matter with him?' cried Thursday. 'Why's he not waking up?'

'If I had to guess,' DeBryn removed a torch from his bag. He pinched back Morse's eyelids and shone the light into each of his eyes. They were vacant. 'I'd say hypoglycaemia.'

Thursday scowled. 'And what's that when it's at home?'

'Has anyone seen him eat anything?' DeBryn looked around at the group. The group looked around at each other but no-one answered.

'I'll take that as a no then,' gritted Max. 'What about this morning?' Silence. 'Yesterday evening, then?' he cried, exasperated.

'I saw him eat a biscuit Wednesday afternoon,' Jakes offered. His face was flush with embarrassment. 'Low blood-sugar it is then,' the doctor sighed.

'But he's done this before,' Fred protested. 'Run round too hard, too fast for too long. He'd fall on his face, but we'd always get him right back up again.'

'If he's had a shock, which it seems he might,' said DeBryn, 'he'd have been riding on a spike of adrenaline. When that dropped off, he went with it.'

'Is he going to be alright?'

'He's not diabetic. That's when these things are really an issue. It may take some time, but his body should right itself. But the quicker we can get him up and eating the better.' His knees clicked as he got to his feet. 'I'll telephone ahead to the hospital. Keep trying to coax him awake and get some orange squash down him, if you can.'

Win sprang to her feet with far more nimbleness than Max had done. 'I'll go and find something,' she said. She didn't want to feel useless anymore. 'No, I'll go,' said Jakes. 'He'll want a kind face when he wakes up. Not this old mug.' Win deflated and Fred squeezed Jakes shoulder with a grateful nod. Then he looked about the room suddenly. Where has Sam got to? Probably, passed out somewhere and all, he thought, and then berated himself for being uncharitable. But he needn't had worried. Sam was moving about the room ushering onlookers back outside into the sunshine. Yes, he might just about do alright as a copper, thought Fred.

At some point, Win has taken hold of his hand. She sat furled beside him and sniffing back tears. 'We can't leave him, Fred.'

'We're not,' said Fred. 'We're right here. I'll go to the hospital with him.'

'No, I mean we can't leave him here - in Oxford - on his own.'

Fred stared down at his faithful boy. Even at rest, he looked tormented. Brow pinched. Lips bowed low. She was right, of course. Morse was strong, and one of the bravest men he'd ever come across. As long as there was justice to be had, he would never relent. He stood steadfast for the victim even if it meant going against the police force itself. But he was foolhardy. Unaware of himself. Unaware of when he spoke out of turn. It got him into trouble. Fred suspected it had always done. Most of the time – as an adult, at least – Fred had been there to catch the punch before it was thrown. Or, failing that, been there to pick Morse up and stop the bleeding afterwards. The Morse that had arrived all those years ago to deal with the Mary Tremlett case had been too feeble-bodied to fight back against his attackers. He was bigger now – a more intimidating presence. He could hold his own now. Fight back if someone jumped him. But his morals prevented him from defending himself. That or an overheavy dose of self-hatred. And yet, Fred hadn't mistaken the determined glint that had re-entered Morse's eye since he'd returned from Cornwall. It was different for the headstrong arrogance he'd displayed in his younger years. This look was grounded. Well-constituted. Sensible, even. But Fred couldn't expunge from his mind the one or two times the rescue had come a bit too late. The gunshot wound, being drugged, the death of Valentina. Morse had survived. But these events had changed him, and not for the better. If Fred has known better, he could have prevented those changes. And perhaps Morse would have felt protected enough to ask for his daughter's hand in marriage. But he hadn't. And today had been another one of those day where Thursday should have been able to keep his boy safe, and failed.

'We have to leave him, Win.'

'But why?' She sniffed, reaching for her husband's hand. 'There must be some other way – to move him to Carshall with you. Get him a promotion.'

Fred shrugged Win's pleading hand away. 'You don't even know that he wants to come with us.'

'Of course he does, Fred!'

'We can't!'

'Why ever not?'

'Because…' Fred choaked to a stop. He swallowed. 'Just because alright?'

'Fred?'

'I'm not going to ruin today. Please, Win. Tomorrow, aright? I just want today to be what it will be.'

Win wanted to argue. She knew better than to pick a fight with Fred when he spoke like this. Fred had averted his eyes, but Win could not fail to notice how her husband's fingers stroked Morse's tawny hair, and she concluded that the two of them couldn't be left stranded like this.

'You want him gone?' she whispered.

Fred pressed a hand to his eyes and heaved out a sigh. 'Course I don't.'

'Then why? I don't understand. What's prompted all this?'

Fred shook his head. 'Not today. Tomorrow. I promise. Tomorrow, I'll tell you everything.'

'Everything?' Her brow creased. 'Why? What's happened?'

'Tomorrow! For the love of God, Winifred.'

Win turned her eyes away and the pair lapsed into silence.

Jakes had listened to this spat unfold from the hallway. How often had Morse been the source of discontent in their little community? No, he decided that wasn't quite right. Morse had a way of exposing those truths which otherwise went concealed and unsaid. It was these stale truths that caused the discontent. What had Fred been hiding? Had Morse found out about it? Is that what had gotten him into this state? Beaten yet again for trying to expose the truth? Jakes felt a pang of guilt. Morse had written to him and said he was still pursuing the Blenham Vale case on the quiet since the Force closed the site down.

Jakes broke from his revelries when Win gave a yelp. Morse had given a groan and twisted his head. Fred started forward. 'Morse?'

His eyelids fluttered. Win petted Morse's hand as he began to surface. 'That's it, love. You're alright,' she coaxed. Slowly, his glazed eyes coloured with consciousness. Win saw them light with worry and jumped to reassure him. 'You took a fall, sweetheart. Everything's alright, though.'

'You're at the reception hall,' Fred lent. 'Joan and Strange's party.'

Morse's eye's shifted from Win to Fred. And then from Fred to Fred's hand upon his head. Fred withdrew his hand. 'Morse, I didn't mean it.' Morse recoiled, turning his head away. He began to push himself up onto his haunches. Jakes sprung forward from his hiding place. 'Morse, take it easy. The Doc says you're not well.' Morse shot him a hard stare. Jakes couldn't ascertain what the stare meant but it made him sit back on heels. Morse began to climb to his feet. Win squeaked and stretched her arms out but it was Fred that got there in time.

'Morse, wait!' He caught hold of Morse's arm as he wobbled. Morse pulled away, pushing at Fred's hands. 'Don't.'

Fred squeezed a tighter hold of him. 'Morse, for heaven's sake! Let me—'

'GET OFF!' Morse bellowed and tore his arm away. He stumbled back and before anyone could catch him, he had crumpled back to the ground. Fred started forward but Win extended an arm to stop her husband going any further. Morse was cradling his arm to his chest like a wounded animal. 'Don't touch me. I don't want you to…' He swiped under his nose with his shirt sleeve, '...to touch me.'

'Alright.' Fred lowered himself to his knees. 'Alright. No-one's going to touch you.'

Morse shielded his eyes with his hand. 'I don't want anyone to touch me.'

Jakes's brow contracted in empathy. Morse had never told him anything concrete about his childhood. But Jakes had seen Morse throw the book at enough child abusers to know it was more personal than professional. Jakes had been on the receiving end of enough brutal hands himself to know how even a gentle touch could make a person's skin crawl. He also knew that Morse was closer to Thursday than anyone, and that something had happened to change that.

He crouched beside Thursday. 'Morse, you're hurt. Someone's got to have a look at you.'

'I'm fine.'

'You just fainted.'

'No.'

'And you were attacked.'

'No,' said Morse, this time shaking his head. Morse was protecting someone. Jakes knew that much. Saying 'no' to a matter of fact as it were an opinion? He crept a little nearer. And then, 'Morse, who hurt you?'

He shook his head again and squeezed his eyes closed.

Fred leaned in. 'Morse?'

'Stop.' Morse pressed his hands to his ears. and a single tear slipped quietly, almost unseen, down his face. 'Please stop.'

Fred felt his heart wrench. He hadn't meant to do it. It was a father's instinct. A father's instinct that had made him reach out and grasp Morse's shoulder. Morse's eyes flew open, and, for a moment, Fred reeled back. His eyes shone as they had done amid the drug-educed waking-terror Emma Carr had inflicted upon him years earlier. Then Morse had burrowed himself into Thursday's chest, clung to his shirt and wept for protection from whatever monsters he had in his head.

That day Fred had glimpsed how much Morse needed help, and how much he denied it to himself. But this time Morse stared at him. And then he knew. Fred knew that Morse had found out. Found out something about Lott or his brother or... He gripped Morse, tying to communicate with him, trying to plead with him. Another tear slipped down Morse's face. And then Morse wrenched his arm away from him.

It was Jakes who reacted first. Blood had begun to stream in rivulets down Morse's torso. Morse clutched his shoulder. He looked down at his white shirt turning crimson. Peter wrapped his arms around Morse as Morse pitched forward. He was white and convulsive. Thursday remained paralysed as those around him sprang to cushion Morse from the floor and stem the flow of blood bubbling from his shoulder. Thursday had been shoved aside by the paramedics, and, even when Doctor DeBryn had shaken him, he remained on his knees, trembling and staring at Morse.

. . .

Morse awoke in hospital alone. He stared at the wall until Doctor DeBryn came and offered him a weak smile. Morse gave him a grateful nod, but DeBryn knew Morse had been looking for something else. Someone else. The chair beside his bed had remained empty. Morse had been asleep when Dorothea came. She laid the posy she had brought in the vase beside his bed and left a small kiss on his forehead as a mother might. She, too, could not help but notice the absence of a particular man.

In the end, it was Morse who went to Thursday. He caught Mrs. Thursday on the way out of that house they'd all called home in the Oxford suburbs. She kissed him and then handed him a sandwich and told him not to be a stranger: 'You don't eat enough.' Morse averted his eyes but nodded. She squeezed his arm and he listened to the clip of her shoes recede down the pavement. He knew he would never see her again, and so clung to that sound, as if the act of forgetting it would force his heart to stop beating. He let go of the breath he had been holding.

Morse let himself in. Thursday was in the kitchen. Morse looked at him. He was still unsure as to whether he was going to say goodbye or whether he was going to tell Fred everything. He could leave Fred's money on the doorstep of his new house one morning with a note telling him to leave. The note could be from Bright or Strange or even his brother Charlie. Then Fred would never need to look into Endeavour's eyes see that the faith – the faith he had always had in his governor – had corroded and fallen away and been claimed by an unforgiving tide. Unbeknownst to Endeavour, though, Fred had already seen it. Felt it. Morse had shrivelled at his touch, and it meant only one thing: betrayal.

'Time for a pint?'

'A half.'

The month Fred had met Endeavour, Endeavour had knelt over Rosalind Calloway's body and cried to him for help. In the pub, Morse clutched his hands in front of him as he did then. But the little innocence that remained in Morse when he arrived at Cowley with was all gone. That day, Fred rested a hand on Morse's back as he sobbed on the floor beside the woman that had been his anchor through his childhood and then had betrayed him. And here Morse was again, this time beside the man that had been his salvation but had, too, in the end, betrayed him. Morse ducked his head as the tears came. There was no Good without Bad. No Right without Wrong. He knew that now. Nothing was pure. Not totally. Nothing was beyond corruption. Except, perhaps, thought Fred, for Morse himself. Perhaps Morse would make it through to the end.

The handshake had been the worst thing of all. Fred wanted nothing more than to clutch Morse to him. Welling-up inside him, the overwhelming desire to tell Morse how an old fuddy-duddy, rough around the edges and stuck in his ways, had never expected to love an unassuming, sand-haired, brilliant young Constable as had come to love Morse. He would sacrifice everything he had already sacrificed again to see Morse happy. Morse needed to know that he was proud as any father could be. And, if it wasn't for Win and Sam, he'd risk everything he had left just to continue seeing that bright and determined face at the door each morning.

But he couldn't. Morse had made the decision for them. No more.

'Goodbye, sir.'

'Endeavour.'

'Morse, sir. Just Morse.'

Thank you for taking the time to read.
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