Dear girl rolled out of bed at "the crack of 11:30" this morning. Dear boy was up earlier and read "Of Mice And Men." No testing, paper writing, or demonstrable synthesis necessary. We can trust his native intelligence to hold this story, letting it roll around in his fine tender wise heart. The the two of them spent the afternoon roasting marsh mellows in the back yard, the boy still in his flannel pjs as of 3:00 this very minute. 

When he finished the book dear boy said, "He kills Lenny?!" 

I'm so sorry, my love. Steinbeck never pulls his punches. If he's going to throw, he throws as hard as he can. And its nothing but an act of sorrowful compassion.