“For the first 38 years of my life, if I wanted to see a dramatically desecrated Jewish cemetery, I had to fly to Eastern Europe,” says commentator Daniel Torday. He reflects on the vandalism at Philadelphia’s Mount Carmel cemetery.
Peggy Carter sat in the single chair alongside the lone hospital bed of the private room that had been assigned to Chief Jack Thompson. The waves in her hair had gone flat, she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and dark circles bloomed under her reddened eyes. She kept one hand on the shotgun that stood propped against her metal and vinyl chair, as she listened for any sounds outside the hospital door. A solitary gargoyle sitting guard over the injured man’s bedside, her expression alone was enough to frighten the doctors and nurses who occasionally ducked inside to adjust medication or check Jack’s vital signs as she watched their every movement with suspicion.
She hazarded a glance at the unconscious man beside her. Jack looked almost as white as a corpse, and she worried again about how much blood he’d lost before being found. She knew that he’d received a transfusion while in surgery, but still her mind found new reasons to worry. She’d never considered Jack Thompson an important fixture in her life before, but all it had taken were the words “Jack’s been shot” for Peggy to feel as though the ground had disappeared from her world.
Without the certainty of Jack’s continued presence, she found herself floating in a nebulous world of formless fears and self-recriminations. She needed Jack to open his eyes and tease her. She needed him to give her one of his smug grins. She needed him to just wake up and say anything to her… to simply be Jack.