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It suddenly occurred to Emmit how young this girl was… fourteen? 

His head dropped to his hands on the table… My head hurts, and you just got kicked in a fight, and a girl saved your life… but it’ll help to be nice. 

Picking his head up, Emmit smiled… and it hurt. Not physically. Tears were in his eyes as he looked into the young girl’s face. Moons of pain and sorrow surfaced in this smile, but he let the tears stay, he let the glistening reflect whatever light was around him.

“My dear girl… I’m sorry…” He stuck a hand in his coat and pulled out a little picture. Without so much as glancing at it, he slid it over to the girl. In the picture a man stood , holding a woman in his arms. They were both young, crisp, in white attire… “Every time I fight… I’m fighting for her.” In the picture his eyes are shining, as couldn’t be seen now. But they were still the same eyes… and he still had the same nose.