“Um, yeah,” I said. “I’m from Support Group. These are for him.
She took them and placed them in her lap. “Do you know Monica?” she asked.
I shook my head no. “Well, he’s sleeping,” she said.
“Yeah. I talked to him a little before, when they were doing the bandages or whatever.”
“I hated leaving him for that but I had to pick up Graham at school,” she said.
“He did okay,” I told her. She nodded. “I should let him sleep.” She nodded again. I left.
The next morning I woke up early and checked my email first thing. lidewij.vliegenthart@gmail.com had finally replied.
Dear Ms. Lancaster, I fear your faith has been misplaced—but then, faith usually is.
I cannot answer your questions, at least not in writing, because to write out such answers would constitute a sequel to An Imperial Affliction,
which you might publish or otherwise share on the network that has replaced the brains of your generation.
There is the telephone, but then you might record the conversation.
Not that I don’t trust you, of course, but I don’t trust you.
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