The Fat Man watched, eyeless, as his Little Boy was carried away, gently, nervously. Fat Man tried to weep for the youth, feeling in his metallic heart that it was what Little Boy would expect of him. He listened to the falsified, and yet, heart-rending cries of Little Boy, steeling himself against his sudden, perverse desire to rescue him from the Gods, from the intellectuals with little knowable morality.
They had their differences, certainly, but the Fat Man loved his Little Boy.
‘They are taking Little Boy to a better place.’ Fat Man muttered. ‘Little Boy will make a peace to last generations, and Little Boy will save millions of lives.’
A few days later, on the Ninth of August, nineteen-forty-five, they told Fat Man. Fat Man was following his Little Boy!
‘Where is he? Is Little Boy okay?’
But, with eyes cast down and white coats tightened about skeletal framed, and metallic fingers enwrapping his sickeningly inflated body, they refused to answer Fat Man with any sound, save silence.