On operations with G.I. Joe
Story by Stephen J. Thorne
It was the one and only Christmas I went downstairs before anyone else in the
family—a grievous breach of protocol in my house, where we traditionally
gathered military-style at the top of the stairs and descended together.
But the Christmas I was six, or maybe it was seven, I just couldn’t wait.
And for good reason because there, under the tree at 6 a.m., was the
one thing I had desperately wanted: a G.I. Joe.
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