2061-10-14 23:50
I don't know how to write this. My son. Taken off our street in the Sector 11 harvest of '58, six years old, and I have looked for him every day since. Tonight there was a knock at the SILENCE hatch and it was him. Duffel coat far too big, Sparky the bear under his arm, crying, and he said 'Dad, can I come in?' and he called me what he always called me. I don't know how he got out. I don't care. He's asleep on my lap as I type. Every loop has an end. This is mine.