Previously On Specimen S:
He tore his gaze from the stars surrounding him and looked toward the Earth again. The world lay spread out, far beneath his feet. He could see the gentle curve of the globe, could see the land and sea as vague shapes through the haze of distance. He could see the faint distinction where the atmosphere began, could see the rim awash in a whitish-blue glow from the sun. He could see the white swirls of clouds, hanging above the Earth's surface. A flicker of light caught his eye and he looked toward it. Florida was getting a severe electrical storm, from the looks of things. And further down south, out in the ocean, a tropical storm was brewing. Clark could see the distinctive shape of the clouds.
Up this high, the world looked peaceful. It looked still. Up this high, there was no evidence of war or injustice or poverty. There was no evidence of crime or of suffering. There was no pollution up this high. Clark liked it.
And yet, being where he was, hanging in space, looking down on his home, it only hammered in the fact that he was alone. Different. Isolated. An alien.
His air supply was growing inadequate. His lungs were beginning to ache and burn. He would have to take in a fresh breath of air soon. In a way, it startled him. He hadn't realized that he'd spent so much time there already. With a mental sigh, he turned and headed back. He sped away, knowing he'd need the speed to avoid the detection of anyone who might chance a glance at the sky and see the flying man. The last thing he needed was to blow his carefully maintain guise of being just another regular guy.
He still had nightmares sometimes, about the days he'd lived as Cameron Trask's prisoner. He'd awoken more than once to find himself covered in a sheen of sweat, his heart thudding against his ribs. Though Clark knew that the police had searched for Trask, he'd never been found. Bureau Thirty-Nine had seemingly vanished into thin air. And even if Trask and his crew had been found, it didn't matter much. If Clark's true nature was ever discovered, there would no doubt be some other scientist ready to dissect him like a frog, or parade him around as the freak that he was.
Step right up! Step right up! Come see the incredible alien freak, his mind bellowed at him, in the voice of a carnival barker. See him bend steel with his bare hands! See him bounce bullets off his chest! See him levitate right before your very eyes! Step right up! Step right up!
Clark was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize how quickly he was approaching the ground. He tried to stop, but only managed to slow down. He scrambled a bit, but his efforts were too late in coming. He smashed violently into a large rock on the very edge of the Kents' property line, which they had affectionately named "The Boulder." The Boulder exploded into a million pieces, and Clark finally found himself stopped. He stood up, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, thankful no one had witnessed that, with the exception of a few curious squirrels that chattered unhappily at him from a maple tree.
"Gotta work on landing," he said to himself, dusting himself off as best he could.
With that, he sped away toward the farmhouse, knowing that it had to be getting late. His parents would be getting up, and he had to get to his chores. As he skidded to a halt and entered the house, the delicious odors of his mother's cooking filled his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, committing the smell to memory. Pretty soon, he reminded himself, he'd be forced to eat less than appetizing cafeteria food.
"What happened to you?" Martha asked as Clark shuffled into the kitchen. Her eyes were wide with surprise and concern.
Clark shrugged. "Well...Mom, Dad...I've got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is, The Boulder isn't there anymore. The good news is, you've now got a couple hundred pounds of gravel up in the back field."
***
November 4, 1987
"Kent, you are a damn machine!"
Clark snorted a laugh. "Thanks, Willy." He clasped his friend and roommate on the shoulder.
"No, seriously, man, that was some incredible football playing. What's your secret?"
"What can I say? I had a good day."
Clark shrugged and sat on the wooden bench in the locker room, his teammates all around him in various stages of undress. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to fix it a little from its current style of being plastered to his head from the helmet.
"A good day?" Willy Thompson said, snorting in disbelief. "That's the third record you've broken in four years."
"Like I said," Clark said, squirming a little under his dark-skinned friend's gaze, "I just had a good day. Last game, it was Jake Nelson who had a good day."
It was the truth - he knew that in his heart. He'd never once used his powers to give himself an edge in anything before, tempting as it sometimes was. He wanted to earn things on his own merit. And his parents had instilled in him a firm moral compass, one that was decidedly opposite from what Trask had once tried to force upon him. Plus, Clark would never do anything to blow his carefully constructed facade of normalcy. He didn't want to draw attention to himself in any way.
Of course, that was often difficult as quarterback of the football team. Especially when he had good days, like today. Everything had just fallen into place, and Clark had managed to set his third record. He didn't know how it had happened. Maybe the planets had aligned or something. He hadn't even been aware of what had been happening until after the game had ended and Midwestern State University had won.
"Yeah, well...I'm happy for you."
"Thanks, Willy. I appreciate that. You wanna grab some dinner with my folks and me in a bit?"
"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks."
"Anytime."
"You know, it's nice that your family comes to see you play when they can."
"Yeah. Just lucky I guess. Let me guess, both of your parents are on call this weekend?"
"What else?" the other man said, shrugging as if it were no big deal, though Clark knew otherwise.
Clark felt a twinge of remorse for his friend. Willy's mother and father were both respected doctors in New York. And while Willy was proud of them, it often meant that one or both of them were unable to attend their son's football games.
"Well, I'm more than happy to share my family with you," Clark said, giving his roommate a smile. "And so are they."
Clark stripped off his dirty jersey, tossing it to one side. He headed toward the showers, more than eager to have the hot water rolling over his body. He wasn't tired, and he hardly ever broke a sweat, at least not due to heat or physical exertion. But it always felt good to have the hot water on his muscles anyway. The spirit of competition sloughed off his body with the water, refreshing him in every way. He showered quickly, joking with his teammates over the splash of water. Then he swiftly dried and dressed.
He was repacking his gym bag and ensuring that he hadn't left anything in his locker when his coach approached him. He gave Clark a smile and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Kent, you have no idea how proud I am of you today."
"Thanks, Coach."
"You keep playing like that and you've got a shot at playing professionally."
"That...wow...that would be something," Clark said, growing uncomfortable again. But before he could say anything else, his friend Chris Wilson caught the coach's eye and the man went off to speak with him.
It would be amazing to play pro ball. He knew that, deep in his heart. And maybe some small part of him liked the idea. He certainly loved the game. And who wouldn't want a shot at winning a Super Bowl or two? But he also knew that he didn't want to let go of his dream to be an investigative reporter. He truly felt like that was his calling in life. As much as he loved sports, his true passion was writing. And through his writing, he could change countless lives.
Perhaps, he thought, it was time to stop playing ball so well. Oh, he would still help his team win as many games as he possibly could. He would make the most out of his senior year. And he would savor the triumph of this moment, because this would be the last record he would ever break. He would make sure of that.
His mind made up, Clark left the locker room, his gym bag slung casually over his shoulder. His parents had flown into Metropolis for the game. Or rather, he had flown them in late the night before. They tried to make every one of his games, and for that, he was thankful. It was nice to know that they were out there, in the stands, cheering him on. They would be waiting for him, somewhere out in the vast chaos of the emptying Metropolis Stadium, ready to congratulate him and go get some food. He nodded to various players from the Metropolis University football team as their paths crossed.
"Excuse me!" a young woman's voice cried out, as Clark made his way across the field.
Clark heard the rush of footsteps behind him. A moment later, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped and turned.
His heart stopped along with his feet.
Before him stood the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. She had long brown hair that tumbled down her back and shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight. And her eyes! Clark felt that he could get lost in those twin chocolate pools. He could drown in them, and die a happy man for it. But her crisp suit and ready pad of paper told him she was there to interview him, not because she found him attractive. Although, he thought, one could always hope for both.
"Can I help you?" Clark asked, his tongue feeling dumb and unskilled in her presence.
"Lois Lane. Reporter for the Metropolis University paper. I'd like to interview you, if you don't mind."
"Sure thing," he said, giving her his best smile. He turned and led her to an unoccupied stretch of bleacher seats. "So, you're a sports journalist?" He was proud of himself for keeping the surprise out of his voice.
"No," she said, shaking her head. Her hair bounced with the movement, entrancing Clark. "I'm filling in for today. The usual sports writer had to go home this weekend to attend his brother's wedding."
"I see," Clark said, sitting down and setting his gym bag aside. "Well, I'm an open book. Ask me anything."
"Thanks," Lois said, turning her attention to the list of questions she had with her.
"No problem."
Lois started in with her questions. Or, rather, Clark suspected that they weren't exactly her questions. She had probably gotten them from the regular sports reporter. He could tell by the way she stumbled over some of the terms. Although, he had to admit, she did seem pretty comfortable with most of what she was saying. Perhaps she had a brother who played ball. Or maybe, Clark thought with a sigh, she had a boyfriend who played. He didn't know why, but that idea made him a little sad. He'd only just met her. It wasn't like he had any right to feel jealous if she did have a boyfriend.
He answered her questions as well as he could, trying to give her the best possible quotes for her article. As an aspiring reporter himself, and member of his own school's paper, he knew the importance of having good quotes. If Lois realized what he was doing, she didn't let on that she knew. Clark didn't mind. It was a thrill just to be sitting and talking with such an incredibly beautiful young woman. It was more thrilling than knowing he'd set another record.
What questions she asked, he couldn't recall afterwards. Though he gave her his full attention and his very best answers to her queries, his mind was not on the interview. It was solely fixed on Lois. How her eyes sparkled with the love of what she was doing. How the sun framed her, outlining her in a halo of golden rays, highlighting her features. The sound of her voice as she spoke with him. The sound of her laughter when he cracked a joke or two. The way she moved, ever so gracefully.
By the end of the interview, Clark was certain of only one thing.
He was in love with Lois Lane.
***
July 22, 1988
Clark woke in the middle of the night, unsure of what had shaken him from the dreamless, peaceful sleep he'd been enjoying. He looked over at the bedside clock, the large red digits informing him that it was 4:15am. Groggily, he realized he only had a few more hours of sleep ahead of him before he'd be expected to show up for work at the Smallville Post. He lay back down and closed his eyes, trying to fall back to sleep.
A light appeared in his bedroom, searing right through his eyelids as surely as the sun. Clark sat up, rubbing the sleep from his heavy-lidded eyes. He looked over his room, his eyes going to the small box he kept on his bookshelf. Light spilled out from beneath the lid, so intensely bright and white that Clark had to squint.
But he felt drawn to the light in the same moment. It was almost magnetic, in a way. Clark felt himself getting out of bed and shuffling toward the box, without the conscious effort to do so. He crossed the room and hesitated before his bookshelf. He reached out to the box and let his hand hover above the lid for a long moment. There was only one thing in that box.
The globe.
He'd nearly forgotten that it was there. For years now, it had been sitting in that box, as the lid gathered dust and Clark had become busy with his life. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken it out to look at it. He wasn't even certain which map the globe showed - that of Earth or that of Krypton. Clark had lost his fascination with it.
But never before had the object glowed with its own light. Not since he had taken it on the night he'd escaped from Trask's compound. Then, the globe had briefly illuminated and the map face had changed from Earth to Krypton, the word whispered in his mind from some unknown source. Since then, the globe had laid dormant, no matter how many times Clark had picked it up, held it, examined it, had contemplated it, or utterly ignored it.
Until now.
Clark unlocked the box and flipped open the lid. Light exploded into the room as the globe was exposed. Clark was awestruck. He reached in and grasped the globe with a gentle, yet firm, grip. He pulled it from the box and held it in his palm, shuffling backwards until he could sit upon his bed again.
Suddenly, before him, the image of a man appeared in three-dimensional form. It was a hologram. Clark was momentarily stunned. He had thought that the technology needed to achieve such a highly perfected image only existed in science fiction. He quickly assessed the image before him. The man was maybe his parents' age, perhaps a few years older. He was dressed all in white, the sigil of the house of El wrought on his chest with silver. He looked somehow stately. Regal even.
But what was more, was that Clark found the man to be familiar looking, in a way. He didn't think he'd ever seen the man before in his life. At least, he had no conscious memory of it. Yet, there was something about him that felt familiar. Then it hit Clark. The man looked a bit like him. He had some of the same features. The eyes were similar, as was the man's hair. He had the same jaw line. He held himself the same way Clark did.
Clark was stunned. Who was this man?
But his thoughts were scattered as the man began to speak. His voice was strong and gentle at the same time. It was soothing, yet Clark could not miss the intensity with which the man spoke. This was an important message, Clark instinctively knew.
"My name is Jor-El. And you are Kal-El, my son."
Clark's mouth hung open. This man...could this truly be his father? Could this be the man who had given him life?
"The object you hold has been attuned to you. That you now hear these words is proof that you survived the journey in space and have reached your full maturity. Now it is time for you to learn our heritage. To that end, I will appear to you five times. Watch for the light, listen, and learn."
That sounded almost like the conclusion of a speech to Clark, and he silently begged the hologram not to leave him just yet. He had so many questions. He wanted to learn. He wanted to know who he was. It sounded like this man - Jor-El - had known that Clark was being sent to Earth. It sounded perhaps, like it was of his own doing. And Clark desperately wanted to know the reason why, even if it was that his father couldn't care for him. He needed to know, to have his curiosity sated.
The image before Clark widened out, like a movie. Clark could see the planet of Krypton, hanging almost motionless in space. A scattering of stars beyond the planet could just be seen on the edges of the image. Then, it changed, revealing Jor-El in some kind of laboratory, it seemed. He was standing before some kind of console, various lights and images on it. Clark could see some kind of writing, but it didn't look like any language he'd ever seen before. He couldn't read it.
Jor-El was busily at work at the console. Clark wasn't sure just what the man was doing. But he seemed to be frantic, in the way that he moved, the impatience he seemed to exude. Clark wondered what was going on. Jor-El's voice continued to speak, though the image of him did not move his lips.
"Time grows short and we continue to search. The immensity of space is both a blessing and a curse. In that near infinite variety there must be someplace suitable."
Suitable? For what? Clark wondered.
"Hope and desperation drive us in equal measure."
Us? Who was "us?" Did Jor-El have an accomplice? Maybe a lab assistant?
A tall, elegant woman strode into view, joining Jor-El at his side. Clark was surprised to recognize bits of himself in her as well. And he knew. This woman, whoever she was, was his mother. She was the woman who'd given birth to him.
"Lara works by my side. She is tireless and endlessly patient," Jor-El continued. "Considering what is soon to come, this is my greatest consolation: that we are together."
Clark watched in rapt fascination as the image in the hologram shook violently. Jor-El and Lara clutched each other, while the console lights flared into a new pattern. Perhaps it was reading the intensity of the tremor. Perhaps it was a delayed warning. Perhaps it was nothing but jumbled static. But soon enough, the shaking stopped, the lights also returning to normal.
Just what had happened?
But Clark was to find out no more answers. At least, not that night. The hologram retreated back into the globe and the light died. For a long while, Clark stared at the object, trying to will it to show him more of the story. Nothing happened. At last, Clark put the globe away and retreated back beneath his blankets.
Sleep would not come to him, his mind too busy replaying what he'd seen over and over again.
***
August 1, 1988
Tears streamed down Clark's face as he sat alone in his room. The globe was in his hand, the hologram faded away into nothingness. It had just shown him the fifth and final message from Jor-El. Clark had witnessed as his biological parents put him into his spaceship, an infant they had probably barely gotten to know. He watched as his father pressed the command button that sent the ship rocketing away from the planet's surface. He saw as the ship cleared Krypton's atmosphere, and not a moment too soon.
For a long moment, the planet hung, suspended in space. It seemed so quiet, so peaceful. In the next second, it was gone, in a flash of light and a violent explosion. Clark saw pieces of the planet, now glowing green, rush out into the universe in every direction. Some raced his own ship, caught in the ship's wake or by chance, he couldn't tell. But he knew that those chunks of stone were pieces of Kryptonite, the only substance he'd ever encountered that could cause him pain and make him vulnerable.
Clark's heart was broken as he sat there, in the middle of the night. He knew now, that he hadn't been abandoned. His parents - his biological parents, that was - had loved him so fiercely that they had done the only thing they could do to save his life. That was a great relief to him.
He had been loved. He had been wanted. Just as the Kents loved and wanted him, so had his biological parents.
But the relief he felt was tempered by an immense sadness. And even more questions popped up into his mind.
His parents had saved him. Why hadn't they saved themselves? Had it been lack of time? Had they chosen to stay until the bitter end? If they had, why? Had anyone else sent their child to Earth? Or even, to another planet? Was he truly the last son of Krypton, as Jor-El had called him? Or were there other survivors out there somewhere? If there were, would he ever find them? Would it be strange or comforting to meet another who shared his heritage?
He didn't regret the decision Jor-El and Lara had made. They had saved his life. And, by extension, they had also changed the lives of Jonathan and Martha Kent. He knew the decision couldn't have been easy for the two people who had given him life. They possessed a strength Clark wasn't sure he would ever have, to be so incredibly selfless. He wished only that they hadn't needed to die. He wished only that he could remember them. But the people in the globe were no more than strangers who shared his features.
***
March 1, 1990
"Son, it doesn't have to be this way," Jonathan pleaded. "We can figure something out."
Clark shook his head. "No, Dad. I really screwed up this time."
"No," Jonathan argued.
"Look, I don't like it anymore than you do. But I don't see what other choice I have."
"Son..."
"We've been over this, Dad. We've always known that this was a possibility."
"No one saw you, Clark."
"That little girl did."
"She's five, Clark," Martha put in. "Do you think anyone is really going to put any stock in what she has to say?"
"It doesn't matter, Mom. Whether she was five or fifty-five, I screwed up. I was seen. All it would take is for one rumor to start flying around..."
"That's all it would be. A rumor," Martha insisted. "All we'd have to do is deny it, pretend we have no idea what people are talking about."
"You mean lie."
"Not exactly," Martha said, squirming in her seat, knowing how much her son hated to fib. "But really, if we laughed it off as impossible, who would believe what the girl might say? Besides, those people aren't even from around here. You said yourself that the car had California plates."
Clark paced before his parents. He was in their living room. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth, though it did not cheer Clark at all. Beyond the windows, a heavy snow was falling and night was coming on. The snow had been responsible for the entire dilemma he was now facing.
He'd spent the day out on the trail of a story for the Smallville Post. The weather had grown cloudier by the minute. People had begun to leave work earlier than usual, wanting to get home before the storm hit. The temperature had plummeted and the wet roads had begun to freeze up. Clark had known that he needed to call it a day as well. He'd never get the information he needed. So he had started for home.
Normally, he drove into town in his beat up little car, an aging and dented Chevy he'd bought second-hand. But not this day. The weather forecasters had stressed that the storm would be bad, and Clark hadn't been willing to chance driving. So he had flown in, carefully ensuring that he avoided detection. He had more than enough experience in doing so. He had his takeoff and landing points all picked out, places where no one would ever see him come or go.
He'd left the office that afternoon, headed to the alleyway behind the building when he was sure no one was looking, and had taken off like a rocket. Once he was high enough up, and far enough from town, he'd allowed himself to slow down. The wind and cold didn't bother him in the slightest bit. He had enjoyed the flight, until he heard the screams.
They had reached his ears, triggering his sensitive hearing. He had stopped in midflight, hovered, and searched for the source of the sound. He had pulled off his glasses, shoved them into the pocket of his winter coat, and began to search, zooming in with his powerful vision. Finally, he'd pinpointed the source. Five miles up the road, a car had hit a stretch of black ice. It was out of control, sliding across the lanes, and heading for a collision with a skidding delivery truck.
Clark hadn't even thought about anything. He'd simply reacted. He'd sped toward the impending disaster, hoping he'd reach the car in time. As he got close, he overshot the car, changed his angle, and dove. He'd crouched behind the rear bumper of the car, trying to stay out of view. Carefully, so as not to leave impressions where his fingers were, he'd guided the car back into the correct lane of traffic, then ensured that it was no longer on ice.
He'd flown off as soon as he was satisfied that the car was no longer in immediate danger, hiding in a heavy gray cloud. The snow was failing so thickly that it had been a challenge for him to see anything, which he had assumed would also serve to hide him as well. The car and the truck both came to skidding halts, each driver pulling to the side of the road. Clark listened in, needing to be sure that he hadn't been spotted and that the occupants of the vehicles were uninjured.
"My God, are you all right?" the truck driver had asked, exiting his vehicle and jamming a wool hat onto his head. "I couldn't stop in time. I tried."
"We're all right," the man who'd been driving the car had said. "Just shaken up a bit, that's all."
"Good. I'm pleased to hear it. Roads are bad today," the trucker had observed, shaking his head.
"Sure are. I lost control of the car. I don't know how I got it back."
"Just in the nick of time."
"I'll say. Are you from around here? Do you know if there's a place we can hole up for the night? Someplace close by?"
The trucker had nodded. "Keep going straight for another eight miles, you'll reach town. There's a bed and breakfast you can try. Ask for Trina. Tell her Al sent you, and she'll treat you right."
"Thanks, I appreciate that."
"You're welcome, and stay safe."
"You too."
The trucker had shaken the other man's hand and went back to his vehicle. The man had turned and headed back to his own car. His wife and small daughter had since gotten out of the vehicle. Clark hadn't been paying them any attention, but he did so when he noticed the girl pointing up at the sky, in the relative vicinity of where he'd been hiding.
"What it is, Cindy?" the woman had asked, shading her eyes and squinting against the falling snow.
"There was a man."
"A man?" her father had asked.
The girl had nodded gravely. "He fixed the car."
"Oh really?" the man had said, and Clark had been relieved to hear the skepticism in his voice. He was only playing along with his daughter. "Where did the man go? I'd like to thank him."
"He flew away," the child stated, matter-of-factly.
"Oh, he flew, did he?" The father had chuckled, clearly amused at the girl's overactive imagination.
"He did," the girl had asserted, in slightly wounded tones.
"Cindy, stop making up stories," her mother had chided. "Get back in the car. We need to get into town before the roads get any worse."
With that, the family had climbed back into their car and slowly made their way along the road, crawling so slowly they'd hardly seemed to be moving at all. Clark had stayed put, too afraid to move, until they were four or five miles down the road. Then he'd flown, as fast as he could, to his house.
Clark snapped out of his memories.
"It doesn't matter," he argued. "One rumor is all it would take, Mom, to send everything crashing down. I don't know what Trask is up to. I don't know what spies he might have. I have no idea where he might be. No one ever found anyone related to Bureau Thirty-Nine. If rumor somehow reached him of a flying man in Kansas, I don't know what would happen. He'd come after me, that's for sure."
"But you can easily outmatch him, son. Make sure the proper authorities took care of him." Jonathan's face was grim.
"He has Kryptonite, Dad," Clark said, shaking his head. "All it would take would be one well-placed bullet. My heart, my head, my guts..." He sighed. "And that's just what he could do to kill me. I can't imagine him having a problem with kidnapping, torturing, or murdering you guys, if he made the connection between us. I can't risk it. I won't."
"So, what then? What are you going to do?"
"I need to leave," Clark said, his voice sinking to barely a whisper. "I can't stay here anymore."
"Clark..." Martha said.
Clark shook his head sadly. "I don't want to go. But I don't see what other choice I have."
"There's got to be some other way," Martha argued.
"If I leave, Trask will have a hard time finding me. And maybe he won't make the connection between Kansas and you guys and me. Maybe he'll think I was just passing through the area."
"You're assuming he'll ever hear of today's incident," Martha pointed out. "He probably won't. You realize that, don't you?"
Clark sighed. "Of course I do, Mom. But I can't hang my hopes on 'probably.' Trask is an evil man."
"Where are you going to go?" Jonathan asked.
It was a simple question, and not one that Clark had an answer to yet. He shook his head.
"I don't know," he admitted softly. "I just know that I can't stay."
"Oh, Clark," Martha sighed, distressed.
"It's okay, Mom," he said, coming to her side and resting his hand on her shoulder. "I'll be okay. And besides, it's not like I'll ever really be all that far away. I can come home anytime to visit with you guys. Just so long as I'm careful about it."
"Son, it's not going to be the same without you here," Jonathan said.
"I know, Dad. But I promise, I'll still come home at least once a week to have dinner with you. And I'll still come in to help with as much work on the farm as I can. Besides, it shouldn't be that difficult for me, wherever I wind up. You guys know that I have a knack for languages. I should be able to just...blend in...no matter where I go."
Clark stopped and sighed. His hand reflexively curled and uncurled, making a fist and relaxing it again. The muscle in his jaw ticked, a sign of how unhappy he was, and how tightly he was trying to stifle his emotions. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to lose the only home he'd ever known. He didn't want to go out blindly into the world, trying to find some other place to settle in, hoping against hope that Trask would never find him.
But he saw no choice. His own desires paled in comparison to the greater responsibility of keeping his parents safe. And if that meant leaving behind his friends, his job, and his home, he would do so.
To Be Continued...
