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"Gotta crawl 'fore ya can walk," said Jack, grinning. "An' ya gotta
run 'fore ya can fly. It's time to fly."
I wondered if he even knew what he was saying anymore. Eighty-three
years old, in for life, and spouting crap. Flying. Likely get himself
killed, that kind of talk.
"Gonna grow wings, old man?" I laughed in his wrinkled face. "Maybe
you can just fly both of us on out of here."
He laughed back. His eyes were shining, even through the cataracts.
"I'll show all of ya."
I walked away, shaking my head. Crazy bastard.
Next morning, the pen was buzzing. He done it. Old Jack gone and flew
away. Right over the walls.
The rest, the stuff he didn't need no more? That they hauled out in a
big black bag.
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