“Was it your bomb?”
“I don’t know. Neither does Beetee,” he says. “Does it matter? You’ll always be thinking about it.”
I want to call him back and tell him that I was wrong. That I’ll figure out a way to make peace with this. To remember the circumstances under which he created the bomb. Take into account my own inexcusable crimes. Dig up the truth about who dropped the parachutes. Prove it wasn’t the rebels.
Forgive him. But since I can’t, I’ll just have to deal with the pain.