My job in hooking up the two love birds is done and there’s little else I can contribute. Sephtimus seems to be doing just fine on his own, too, having assimilated a working knowledge of human communication and behavior through the Lachesis monitors. More importantly, seeing the possibility of love in the shape of Lessa and Chester leaning towards each other across the diner table has torn open a wound in me that no amount of discipline can plug up. I feel like an old, mangy lion that remembers the smell of grass on the savannah but forced to spend all the remaining days of its life inside a cage. I need you, Sam. Now more than ever. I walk through the memory-riddled streets, taking in the dim lights and the muted sounds of the city that acts like a baby – little by little quieting down but still refusing to fall asleep. I put my fluid, chameleonic, now-you-see-’em-now-you-don’t hands into the pockets of my aqueous hips and jeans, and hang my head. It seems as though I’ve retained the erratic properties of the carriage.
