The cardboard form in John's pocket is stiff, He thumbs along its sharp edge, fingers the print of his name, date of birth, social insurance number. Blunt type punched into the surface. His signature in pen. That it, sir?' he'd asked the officer, as he scrawled on the line. 'Just the hair now.' The recruiter's buttons had shone, warm brass in the winter sun. Train leaves in an hour. Got time to go home and pack?' At home his good Sunday shirt was still hanging on a nail. His books lined up on the floor, supported by bricks. Beach glass and metal figurines of soldiers piled in a bowl by his bed. Drawing pad and pencils shoved under the mattress for his brothers to find.' Nothing I want to take with me,' When John left the man had patted his shoulder, commended him. John had wondered what it would be like, signing up boys all day long, going home to meatloaf and potatoes, hot tea, a pretty wife with a ribbon in her hair. Kids playing in the yard. A warm kitchen. The wind on George Street cuts through John's jacket. White snow drifts against the stairs in shop doorways, piles grey over brown mulch in the gutters, He turns his collar up, pulls the waistband low. The form peers out from his pocket, He turns it, careful not to bend it. Finds a position that keeps it covered and out of the wind. What if a gust caught it from him? Blew it back down the road?
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