A Stitch in Time

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“Of all the stories you told me, which ones were true and which ones weren’t?”

“My dear Doctor, they’re all true. . . .”

“Even the lies?”

“Especially the lies.”

My dear Doctor:

Forgive my delay in responding to your kind communications. I wanted to give this modest chronicle I’ve enclosed a modicum of organization and update it before I sent it on to you. Thank you for your concern. I have thought of you often since our last meeting, and I am pleased to hear that your life on Deep Space 9 remains challenging and productive. Considering all the changes that have taken place I would have expected nothing less. And I’m certainly not surprised that your research proposals have been accepted. You’re a brilliant young scientist—even if you are genetically enhanced. As for my life here . . .

It’s the dust.

I can live with the rubble. I can live with the survivors who move like holographic phantoms and spend every waking hour scavenging for whatever will keep them alive. I can even live with the stench of the corpses that litter the broken streets, waiting in grotesque poses to be transported to mass graves.

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