Claude tamped some ersatz tobacco into his pipe, wincing at the sharp taste as he lit it. “I bet you thought that was fun, huh. Sabotaging their supplies, sugar in the gas tank, things like that.”

Francois squared his jaw. “It’s only right. It’s justice.”

“Uh-huh.” Claude took a puff, and his face soured at the taste. Bound by habit, though he exhaled a ring of smoke. “And what good is your justice when they catch you, hmm? They won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“I’m not afraid to die,” Francois said.

“Aren’t you? You’re a little boy playing at war with a wooden gun. Two wars ago, I saw what could happen when boys stood up and pretended to be men. In the face of determined men, trained men, men with a plan…the only question is if they will kill only you or torture you for knowledge of your associates.”

Francois scoffed. “You want me to lie down. Like everyone else.”

“Did I say that?” Claude raised an eyebrow. “You don’t get to be pushing ninety by being rash, at least not without plenty of luck. Here is what I am saying. They have a plan. You have none. Make plans, and make them better than those dogs who think they are running our country.”

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