The fog rolled in like it had been poured from God’s teacup (it was a huge teacup, he decided, because he’d always pictured God as being huge and huge men required huge dishes). He watched from his bedroom window as it drifted in across the field, slithering between the stalks of corn like ghost fingers. The way it moved made him uneasy. Monsters lived in the fog, and they ate little boys like him.
Twenty years later, Dick Winters stared into mist hanging above Upottery, Nixon smoking silently beside him, and knew that the monsters had only changed their names.
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