I sit and I’m knitting a sweater for myself, against the miserable cold. I look down in my lap, and in the coarse wool are woven images which repre...ent my frustrations, my fears, my sorrows. I have been working on this sweater, a little bit every day, my whole life. Over the years it has changed – adding on bits, losing bits – becoming larger and smaller, but always mine, the colors and patterns always familiar. At last my fingers ache and I can do no more today. I stand and pull the sweater. Betsy was wearing old jeans and an old camo shirt. She was a little over five-foot seven inches tall. Beautiful red hair flowed like water across and just past her shoulders. Her eyes were emerald green and matched her fair, flawless skin perfectly. Bill felt so filthy just standing there next to her. The medics had cleaned him up some, but his clothes were shredded and tattered. Realizing he had been staring at the young lady, he shook himself back to reality replying. "Yes ma'am I'd like to. More

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