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Dad was a World War II fighter pilot with enough kills to be an ace, but it didn't make any difference to him; he just liked to fly. He had flown with...some kind of barnstorming group before the war. While barnstorming, he was inspired to sign up and he was sent to learn how to fly fighters. He met my mom about that time, immediately married her, and started creating my sister. In the war, he flew P-47s in Europe, and P-51s later in the Pacific. He said he trained in P-38s, but never flew them. "I think so," she said, sobbing.I reached over and rubbed her neck. "Lets get you to the hotel and into the hot tub. You'll be ok. I'll take care of you, s*s. Everything will be ok." Thanks," she said, still sobbing.I drove over to the hotel, got Brooke's things, and helped her up to the room. She could walk on her leg, but said that it still hurt.When we got to the room, Brooke sat down on the side of the bed."You want to go down to the hot tub?" I asked her."Yeah." she replied. "Can you help. ’ They looked a bit like sugar pills but they were deep brown. I finished the soup and part of a glass of ginger ale and was exhausted from the effort. I rolled onto my side and put my head on the pillow. I woke around 4:00 and turned on Oprah. I didn’t finish. I next awoke to sounds in the kitchen. Soon Jeff came into the bedroom with a tray of soup and crackers. He took the glass and refilled my ginger ale. He gave me two more of the placebo pills. This was awfully strange behavior if it. When the mom came home, I found out that I had nothing to worry about from the boys trying to screw me. I didn’t have that worry about her husband, for that matter. A whole bottle of little blue pills wouldn’t raise their dead cocks. None even had piss boners in the morning. I couldn’t ever become part of their family, but when they decided it was time for me to talk, the mom slipped me something that made it very therapeutic. No one told me why. Instead of going to my therapist appointment,.
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