The mist hangs low over the flat pond. Little Christian lines up his eye with his hand and then flicks his wrist.
Ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, the smooth stone kisses the surface of the water repeatedly as it sails off into oblivion.
And the assembled faceless masses bring their hands to their faces and form Os with their lips.
Little Christian holds his hands in the air in victory.
Then he bows to the cheering crowd.
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