当他奔跑时，他想到了一切，想到了自己的生活，想到了孩子们，想到了那些定格在他脑海中的片段：他在小巷中被枪杀的那一刻，以及那个男人的闪光。开枪打死了他；第一眼看到刚出生的女儿；他母亲的脸，脾气暴躁，手里拿着一片清晨的吐司，她的形象在他脑海中清晰可见，就像二十五年前，她去世的那天一样……它们全都像肖像和风景一样挂在他记忆的墙上，在黑白的夜色中闪烁着色彩。
(As he ran, he thought about everything and anything, about the life he'd led, the children, the snatches of time frozen in his mind: a moment when he'd gotten shot in an alley, and the flash of the man who'd shot him; the first sight of a newborn daughter; his mother's face, crabby with an early morning slice of toast in her hand, her image as clear in his mind as it had been twenty-five years earlier, on the day she died…. They all came up like portraits and landscapes hanging on the wall of his memory, flashes of color in the black-and-white night.)