It occurs to him late.
Annoyingly so.
Perhaps because all important things occur late.
The book had never really been about him.
The point had always been elsewhere.
Three boys. Not symbolic ones. With trainers and arguments and strange food preferences and opinions about things they do not yet understand.
And suddenly he sees something irritating.
The cast has been wrong.
The Boy.
The Editor.
The Man.
Max.
Henry.
Ollie.
Max is calm. He enters rooms without announcing himself. He dislikes unnecessary conflict. He leads accidentally. People follow him and he seems mildly surprised by it.
Henry notices everything. Stores facts. Remembers phrases from years ago. Corrects adults. Wants the argument to hold together. Loves rules until they break and then takes the break personally.
Ollie lives in his body. Fast. Funny. Furious. He negotiates openly. Cries properly. Laughs properly. Makes claims on the world and expects replies.
The Man laughs. He thought he was excavating himself.
Maybe he had been preparing to see them.
He sits with this.
What then?
Not grand things. Just small clauses.
Do not recruit children into adult loneliness.
Do not confuse intelligence with maturity.
Do not admire suffering.
Do not make them become interesting too early.
Let them disagree.
Let them be bored.
Let them become strange.
Let them love you and leave you.
Tell them when you are wrong.
Let them see you rest.
His job was not to become free.
Outside, one of the boys shouts something.
Another interrupts.
Another complains.
The Man gets up.
No revelation.
No conclusion.
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