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Simon was beyond weary of these idiotic field trips.
(Or so he told himself. Adamantly. Out of necessity.)
Fulbright opened the door of the cruiser with his usual garish grin. “Here we are, sir! Bright and early, Bobby Fulbright style! Ha ha!”
Was being on death row not hellish enough?
Simon slumped out of the car. Hints of daylight painted the night in hydrangea blues. He grumbled and tried to blink the weariness away. They stood before a dirt path leading to a boardwalk. Out of the dawn crept slow sonorities: Water sloshing afar. A rustle of reeds in the wind. Insect chatter. The rasping drone of frogs. Birds, their songs timeless. It would have been dream-like were it not for the clammy stench of algae. “Fool Bright. Where are we.”
“I’m glad you asked!” Fulbright gestured wide. “It’s a nature reserve; pristine marshland, to be precise! Most importantly, it’s a paradise for bird watching.” He rummaged in the pocket of his slacks and unfolded a large brochure. “We’ve got the run of the whole sanctuary until it opens to the public. Pretty great, right?” He turned the brochure around to show Simon. It was a checklist. Childish, treasure-hunt balderdash. “If we team up, I think we’ll be able to spot pretty much every bird in season. Except for the owls, probably. But you never know.”
Bitterness rose in Simon’s throat. He was being pandered to. When his other “handlers” had attempted these stunts in the past, it slid off him rather easily, because when they came at him wearing masks it was effortless for Simon to do the same, his blade drawn.
Fulbright was supposed to be too stupid to attempt such tripe. But here they were.
“Anyway, the trail is pretty long from what I gather, so we should probably get started.” Fulbright advanced to the boardwalk, but halted when he noticed Simon hadn’t budged. “Something the matter, sir?” After a beat, he rubbed the back of his neck. “We can just walk, if you want. We don’t have to scout out birds or anything. I just thought—”
“—you could manipulate me with a ploy as shallow as this?” Simon bit out.
Fulbright tilted his head. “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘ploy’. There's nothing here except me and you, the duo of justice, out in the righteous majesty of nature! It’s something we can both enjoy. At least, that’s what I was hoping.” He added, twiddling his thumbs, “After the whole mini-golf fiasco, I wanted to think more carefully about where I’d take you next.”
Simon glanced away to hide a hard-edged smile. “Mini-golf… What possessed you?”
“Ha! Simple sentimentality, Prosecutor Blackquill. A rookie mistake that I won’t repeat.” He leaned back against one of the wooden rails of the boardwalk, taking a comb from his pocket and adjusting a couple locks of hair that had fallen loose over his brow. “This time will be better.”
For someone of his ilk, these words were strangely enigmatic. Simon could only scoff. “‘Better’ in what manner? What is your aim here?” He gestured to the cruiser, to his manacles, the jangle of chains ringing discordant against the marsh. “I am a death row inmate, Fool Bright. You were not assigned to me in order to have fun. You’re here for the purpose of rehabilitating me — and making a very poor show of it thus far.”
The detective’s smile fell at the edges. He kept it there, its aspect tense. “What I’m here to do is make sure justice is served, no matter what.”
The words he didn’t say caused Simon to still within. He poised himself for battle. “Do not evade the question, detective: What is your aim? What form does justice take, between you and I?”
Fulbright centered Simon with a gaze that was honed surprisingly sharp. “We both know the answer to that. I’m here to help you. That’s all I’ll say.”
Simon glared, but didn’t press the matter. It was too damn early. Still, he’d gleaned something crucial: In spite of being an utter blockhead, Fulbright was cutting too close to the truth for his own good.
The tension was dispelled by beating wings. “Oh, look who it is!” Fulbright beamed and held out his arm as Taka wheeled down from on high, accepting the offered perch without hesitation. “I don’t know if this is the best place for you, buddy.” He scratched Taka’s preferred spot on his head. “There are definitely other hawks around here, and they might be territorial or something. It’d be awful if you got hurt!” As though sensing his concern, Taka preened at his hair in response.
“You’ve learned to handle him well.” Simon observed, “Though he isn’t hard to master, I suppose. He’s a rather simple creature at heart.”
“Thanks, sir!”
“I was speaking to Taka, not you.”
Fulbright pouted. “Very funny.” Yet he bounced back as quick as always: “You’re not wrong though! I am a simple creature of justice, when all’s said and done! Ha ha!” Taka issued a rallying cry from his arm, joining in on his boisterous antics.
Insidious, how it’d gotten to this point. The sight of Taka and Fulbright getting along like this… it brought a feeling to the fore, one so gradual that Simon hadn’t caught it in time. It was warm; too warm for the destiny that awaited him.
“At any rate, Fool Bright,” he said, “Taka is not our pet. This is his true element, and whether he’s bested by other birds or not is up to him.” A misstep. When Fulbright’s eyes widened, Simon realized his slip.
“Our pet…?” The detective echoed, then shook his head with a smile. “Ah, no, he’s definitely yours through and through. He’s just gotten used to me now, that’s all.” Taka launched from his arm and claimed his usual place on Simon’s shoulder, adjusting his weight with a few shifts and leaning in for the expected scratches. “But you’re right on all other counts: As much as my sense of justice tells me to protect others, I think your justice is stronger. Better to let Taka be the magnificent, wild thing he is.”
“Hmph. At least you possess some sense.” Simon paced up to the boardwalk and set foot upon it. “Now, let’s get this pointless waste of time over with.” Behind him came a low chuckle, then the sound of Fulbright’s leather shoes pacing over the planks.
Having spent the last several years confined by metal and stone, Simon experienced his surroundings in a soul-brushing sweep. Seven years of seasons danced through him all at once.
Prisms of color: Gold marshland grass in a silken sway. Summer greens bending lush.
Bodily sensation: Taka shot from his shoulder to ride a fresh wave of morning wind; air that combed through Simon’s hair and whispered wordless lullabies.
Sound and presence: Their shoes thudding over wood in a slow rhythm. Simon felt Fulbright’s brightness fully in that silence — a flame, but firmer.
The reeds cleared into a patch of open water where ducks and geese and insects glided ethereal, untethered. The two of them sauntered to a stop. Stillness sweet… and broken swift.
“Oh, sir, look!” Fulbright touched his arm and pointed to the far bank, where a row of ducklings trailing their mother came cheeping into view. “Oh my goodness — they’re coming right this way! This kinda stuff always gets me emotional…”
Simon tossed him a glance, expecting to feel exasperated, but when he glimpsed how genuinely moved the detective was he couldn’t help sheathing his cynicism. Fulbright leaned over the rail as the creatures paddled closer, more delighted by mere ducks than a grown man had any right to be. “You’re ridiculous.” Simon muttered. It didn’t come out as cold as intended. Fondness impinged the edges, rank and glaring as algae blooms. If Fulbright noticed he didn’t show it, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as the ducklings bobbed back into the bank’s obscurity. “Have you spied the cranes?” Simon nodded in their direction. “Over yonder, to the left.”
Fulbright eagerly scanned the indicated shore. He then gasped and exclaimed, “Wow! They’re so still — they blend right in!”
The cranes loosed a series of horrid shrieks at his outburst and took wing. Fulbright slapped a hand over his mouth, but it was much too late: From there it was a cascade of every creature scattering from the area until only the battle-hardened geese remained.
“Temperance, Fool Bright.” Simon chided.
Fulbright fidgeted, offering a sheepish smile. “Whoops. Me and my big mouth.” They carried on from the pond and onto a winding dirt path that snaked its way around sparse trees. Leaves sparkled gently in the breeze to the tune of sparrow calls. All the while Fulbright rustled his brochure open and checked off the birds they’d spotted.
Simon fell in beside him. “You’ve missed one.”
“Really? I have?”
“Your memory is appalling, detective.” With a rattle of chains, he tapped the brochure over one of the hawks. The gesture brought them a touch too close. Their sleeves brushed.
Again, Fulbright made nothing of it, as oblivious to small blunders as he was to the power of suggestion. “That’s right! Taka definitely counts, I’d say.” He checked off another box with a flourish. “Nothing gets past you, sir.” A teasing glint flashed through his eyes. Rather than react or respond to it, Simon continued along the path, creating a more professional distance between them.
“So, Fool Bright,” he inquired, attempting off-handedness, “what nonsense did you tell them this time? It couldn’t have been easy, convincing the committee that this would be a worthwhile venture.”
They slowed near a willow that trailed curtains of foliage over a stagnant channel. “It wasn’t so bad, actually.” Fulbright answered, “I wandered in, looked them dead in the eyes, and said, ‘Hey, what about nature?’”
Simon smirked. “Jazz hands included?”
“Of course! Gotta hit ‘em with the jazz hands. And when I broke out the finger guns?” He fired imaginary rounds to the horizon and winked. “After that, they didn’t stand a chance. Well, I might've also hit 'em with facts. Touching grass tends to make people less violent, after all!”
Simon almost laughed, catching himself mid-chuff. “You’ve proven yourself a wearisome pest to them, to be sure.”
“Happy to serve!” He flashed his badge. “In justice we—”
A loud screech cut him off. Fulbright yelped and flailed when a small, black shape dove at him. His badge went careening through the air.
It plunked right into the marsh.
They stared at the spreading ripples, dumbfounded. The bird that had attacked Fulbright took up a perch in the willow, still puffed up and screeching — a red-winged blackbird. Simon turned his focus to the detective and… his face. His aviators sat askew over the bridge of his nose. “My badge…” He had the horrified look of a man who’d forcibly had his soul sucked out. “Oh dear god. Prosecutor Blackquill! This is an emergency!”
Simon covered his mouth, but it was for naught. He broke asunder. Laughter fell out of him like guts from an open belly wound, raw and revealing. It wasn’t cruel enough. He tried to temper it, but it only got worse when Fulbright joined in. He was laughing differently too, wheezing and making an utter arse of himself.
A mistake.
The fit released them, but everything had shifted and now Simon struggled to find his footing — the same uneasy certainty falling over him as a turnabout that couldn’t be swept aside.
“What rotten luck.” Fulbright commented, a bit breathless, “I guess we’ll have to fetch a staff member from the center nearby. They should be able to fish it out.”
“Hmph. Careless oaf.” Simon turned to walk back in the direction of the cruiser, suddenly very eager to cut this outing short. “Let’s be on our way, then.”
“Hang on — we can still do the trail first! There’s no rush.”
Simon pointed out, “Is this not urgent business? The proof of your authority is currently submerged in primordial muck.”
“Yes, well…” Fulbright took off his shades and hooked them in his breast pocket. “Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing after all, at least for now. Maybe it’s a chance?”
Simon faced him fully. “A chance? At what?”
The detective’s gaze fell. He searched the ground for several long moments, then murmured, “Lately I’ve been having this thought.” After biting at his thumb, brow in a pensive knot, he blurted out, “What if I wasn’t Detective Fulbright? And what if you weren’t Prosecutor Blackquill?”
Simon examined him closely, particularly his mouth, tightly drawn after the declaration. Regret? Fear? Hope? A confused mingling of things. “What are you suggesting?” Simon asked him, despite knowing better.
Fulbright approached at a saunter and took the key to Simon’s handcuffs from his pocket. “What if we were just… Bobby and Simon for a while?”
This was a battle meant to be fought to the bitter end, so Simon kept his blade drawn. “Don’t be absurd.” He told him with a razored edge, “What you’re proposing could very well bring your career to a premature end. The fact that you seem willing to take such a life-altering risk for something so trivial shows what a fool you truly are.” He punctuated this with a scowl. “I’m disappointed, detective.”
Yet Fulbright remained undeterred. “It’s not trivial.” He held up the key with emphasis. “You being able to relax for a little while isn’t trivial at all.”
Eight months. Then the end. A year from now Simon wouldn’t be here and none of this would matter. Then again, Fulbright might walk this trail again. He would remain, and remember.
What sort of echo did Simon truly wish to leave behind?
He let out a sigh, then nodded for Fulbright to remove his cuffs. “Fine. Off with them. The results of your misguided impulses aren’t my responsibility, understood?”
“Loud and clear.” Fulbright took up Simon’s wrists with gravity, looking into his eyes as the chains fell away. “There.” He looped the cuffs on his belt and took a step back. “Let’s keep going.”
They proceeded down the trail as though nothing had changed. Yet Simon found his strides were longer, his shoulders set back squarely. He wasn’t free, and his dignity hadn’t been restored, but the illusion of his former self was impossible to deny. There was a faint alteration in Fulbright as well, his smile not as wide but infinitely warmer. The lack of his signature aviators gave his face an exposed, tender quality. Simon should have been put off by this entire business. He wished he was. Disgust was easy compared to the alternative.
"Earlier, you said you’d fallen prey to sentimentality.” Simon struck up a conversation as they walked, “Does mini-golf hold some sort of significance to you?”
“Oh. Heh.” Fulbright scratched his cheek. “Me and my gran used to play the odd round. She was busy with police-work most of the time, so it meant a lot to me when I was a kid.”
“Hm.” So it had been a foolhardy attempt at creating happy memories. Still, Simon didn’t regret the scene he’d made — not when he had the image of the Twisted Samurai to maintain. “I suppose your grandmother influenced your career path?”
“Absolutely! She went through a hell of a time, but despite it all, even when everyone tried to drag her down, she remained the epitome of justice. Who wouldn’t be inspired?”
Simon’s thoughts inevitably wandered to Aura and Metis. He’d had role models too, once. “My older sister used to take me to kendo classes, though that was as far as it went for recreation.” He mused, “Perhaps it was an attempt on her part to make me more assertive and outgoing.”
Fulbright studied him with narrowed eyes. “You were shy as a kid? Hard to imagine.”
“Others thought as much. In truth, I was simply less talkative than other children.”
“Silent but deadly?”
“I suppose so. When I did speak, I was rather manipulative.”
“A master of the power of suggestion from birth, and skilled with a sword to boot… If we’d met, I probably would’ve been a little scared of you!”
Simon raised a brow. “Despite the fact you’re five years my senior?”
“Age doesn’t always determine a person’s skill. I lived with an old lady who could’ve kicked my butt whenever she wanted, so…”
They rounded a bend and came upon a lake fenced in by cattails. A dock jutted across its choppy surface with a wooden bench at the end. They sat out on the water, close enough for their knees to touch. A heated point of contact. It was so little, yet Simon’s veins buzzed at the sensation.
The hazy blue of early dawn had warmed into fragile violet during their stroll. Now the sunrise graced them, transforming the lake into a bed of shimmering jewels. Sun alchemy thrummed through the air. Simon overflowed with life. Every sense was under attack, spurring his heart to pound the jail-bars of his ribs.
The weight of it crushed him.
“The next time spring arrives, I’ll likely be gone.”
Fulbright was quick to counter, “No you won’t. You’ll see it again, and the spring after that — because I’m never going to back down. I believe in you. And I believe in what my sense of justice is telling me about all of this.”
“Fool Bright…” Simon swallowed down a familiar ache. “Even if victory is only a passing dream, each man has his battles to face, and this is not your fight.”
Fulbright stared out into the unfolding refulgence along the horizon line. His hand balled into a fist on his knee. “Three years, Simon.” He stated, subdued, “Don’t say it has nothing to do with me. Not after three years.”
It was going to hit him hard. Simon wondered if Fulbright would be present during the execution, teary-eyed and defeated. A loathsome thought. “I don’t want to see you there.”
“Huh?”
“During my final moments.” Simon clarified, “I would rather see you the night before. I want you to remember me as I am.”
Fulbright paused to take a shuddering, sniveling breath. “It won’t ever come to that, but if it does… I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
“Good.” Simon closed his eyes, taking in the detective’s presence, the life stirring in every part of him. “The night before my execution, then. You and I.”
Perhaps in those far-off, strained hours, Simon would have the courage to call the man by his name. Perhaps then he would close the distance, and face the end knowing his taste. Or not. It would likely proceed the same as today, and every other day they’d whittled away in this futile dance.
So it was enough. He could be satisfied with this.
“Tempting to stay here forever, right?” Fulbright nudged into him. “But we should probably move along.”
Simon stood with a sigh. The detective peered up at him, putting on a forced smile. His sorrow was a sharp blade indeed, piercing every last defense. Simon reached out and pulled him to his feet.
They lingered. Fulbright’s hand was unexpectedly rough and cool to the touch, a contrast to Simon’s sweaty palms. As they stood in that unspooling sea of light, his tender-hearted fool melted before his eyes, trailing an affectionate thumb along the inside of his wrist.
Too much.
Simon wrenched back and turned away, marching down the dock.
“Ah… Wait up, sir!”
Back to being called ‘sir’. Their moment had slipped away.
The walk to the center was uneventful, though Fulbright still insisted on keeping track of the birds they encountered. At the trail’s end they came to a stop. “It’s time.” He unhooked the handcuffs from his belt and said, “Hold out your hands, please and thank you.” Simon eyed the things with disdain. Regret was already setting in. He shouldn’t have given Fulbright any openings whatsoever.
He whirled on his heel and bolted off the trail, into the reeds.
“Aw hell — Prosecutor Blackquill! Get back here!” He crashed through the marsh in pursuit. The water was deeper than it seemed at a glance, and the muck at the bottom sucked at Simon’s shoes. It wasn’t a prolonged chase. The detective snatched him up by the wrist and had both his hands pinned behind his back in an instant. “Honestly, sir…” He snapped the cuffs on. “Why are you like this?”
“You let your guard down.” Simon informed him over his shoulder, “You have no one to blame but yourself.” Perhaps he leaned back more than was strictly necessary.
“I’m not so sure about that.” Fulbright murmured, near enough for his breath to hit Simon’s ear, “As far as I can see, the silly games always start with you.” He tightened his grip, but not enough for it to hurt. Not once had Simon experienced pain at his hands — not even when it was well deserved.
“You think this is a game, Fool Bright?”
“Sure. There’s no way you were actually trying to escape just now. To be honest, you could get away from me pretty easy, but I know your sense of justice is too strong for you to seriously consider it.” He sloshed back to the trail with Simon in tow, keeping a steady hand on him as they returned to dry land. “I’m going to keep my receipt from the dry-cleaners, just so you know.”
“Putting this on my tab, are you?”
“That’s right! Once you’re free you can pay me back.”
Simon fell silent. He didn’t have the heart to argue against the likelihood of such a thing.
Fulbright tapped on the glass door to the center, hoping to catch the attention of an employee. A woman appeared, took one look at his suit and said, “Let me guess, you dropped something in the marsh? Come in. I’ll grab a net.” They were ushered inside, and this was when she caught a glimpse of Simon. “You both went in?”
Fulbright tapped his fingers together. “You see ma’am, I lost my badge, and I couldn’t just leave a prisoner unattended, so…”
An absolutely moronic cover story. The woman burst out laughing. “You dragged him in with you?”
“He is a cruel and unusual man.” Simon supplied. She went off to grab the aforementioned net, chuckling to herself until her voice receded into another room. The center also seemed to serve as a museum of sorts, for they were left face to face with a taxidermy recreation of the surrounding marshlands. Various birds were strung up by wire, suspended mid-flight. Water fowl floated on a pond made of glass.
Fulbright whistled at the display. “It’s neat, but there’s something a little unsettling about it, wouldn’t you say?” He vapidly mused, “I don’t know how I’d feel if I was one of these ducks.”
“You wouldn’t have the wherewithal to feel anything, being dead.”
He prattled on, “Well, I guess having my corpse stuffed and preserved for educational purposes wouldn’t be the worst thing — waste not, want not! Can you imagine a courtroom version of this, sir? I’d want to be posed like so!” He stepped back and threw his customary salute. “See? I’d radiate justice, even in death! Ha ha!”
Simon looked askance as his mouth pulled at the side. “You are insufferable.”
“I can picture how you’d be posed too, Prosecutor Blackquill. You’d be doing this move for sure!”
Simon glanced over to see Fulbright leaning back on the admissions counter on his elbows, trying to project an aura of disaffected gravitas. “Are you making a mockery of my methods, detective? I’ve a mind to cut you down where you stand.” Though of course, he could do no such thing. Fulbright responded to the threat with a sunny grin.
“All right, sorry that took a while.” The center employee came bustling back in with a large net. “Show me where you lost your badge. I’ll do my best to retrieve it.”
“Of course, thank you! Right this way!” Fulbright stepped close and placed a hand on Simon’s arm again — to assure the woman of her safety, of course. They set forth.
“By the way,” she commented, “the two of you will want to shower off as soon as possible, or you might get swimmer’s itch. The marsh is teeming with life, and that includes bacteria and parasites.”
“That’s a very good point.” Fulbright pushed up his aviators, casting Simon a look brimming with unspoken reproach. “We probably shouldn’t have gone in the parasite-infested water, huh. Oh well, too late now! We might just have to face the uncomfortable consequences.”
“Heh.” Simon enjoyed annoying him — it was rare that anything got past the detective’s unwavering optimism. “Indeed. Nature has its own brand of justice, in which carelessness is duly punished.”
“Hm.” Fulbright tilted his head, ruminating on this more than was warranted. “Nature does have its own brutal laws, though they aren’t very just if you ask me. That’s only my opinion though. Maybe the forces that created the universe have their own sense of justice? The ultimate justice, written into everything.”
“Spare me your quasi-religious drivel.” Simon riposted, “Justice is an act of refinement, ever-changing: It is a blade one must hone and sharpen with care. There is no ‘ultimate justice’, only the act of pursuing it to the best of our ability.” Simon felt Fulbright’s hand tremble in its grip around his arm.
“Oh… You’re absolutely right, sir!” His face acquired a flushed glow. “I’m getting chills! Is this how artists feel when they’re suddenly inspired?”
Simon realized where they were and halted. Fortunate timing. “This is the scene of the incident.” He addressed the employee and nodded out to the water. “The badge is somewhere beneath those willow branches. Be quick about getting it back. I wish to be rid of this buffoon at the earliest opportunity.”
“Mm-hm.” She parried with one of the archest looks he’d ever seen. “I’m real convinced of that, especially after watching you two rant about justice while gazing deeply into each other’s eyes.”
Fulbright sputtered, “Ah-hem! Ma’am, our level of eye-contact has never been anything but perfectly professional!”
“Leave her to her imaginary depravities. It’s no concern of ours.” Simon muttered.
“I’m not depraved,” she stated, “and you’re both buffoons; it’s not just him.” She circled the bank near the willow and commenced her trawling. Simon was left with the unsettling impression he’d lost his edge. And he knew who was responsible.
“Don’t glare at me like that, sir.” Fulbright rubbed the back of his neck, still flustered. “I didn’t do anything wrong — or at least I didn’t mean to.”
“Hmph.”
The woman drew back her net, peered within and exclaimed, “Ah ha! Got it!” She plucked the badge from a cocktail of slime. “Here you are.”
“Incredible!” Fulbright took back his most prized possession, shaking a few spats of sludge from it, then subjected her to the usual routine: “Thank you for your cooperation! In justice we trust! Ha ha!”
“Uh, yeah. Sure thing?” She retracted the handle on her net, at a loss. Fulbright often put people off this way, his enthusiasm too rehearsed to come across as entirely authentic. “I’m going to head back and open up the center. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
She bustled off, and then the outing was at its end. They returned to the cruiser. Fulbright swung open the back door, gestured inside and said, “Better to head back sooner rather than later — you know, to wash off the parasites and other nasty little things. A rash would be a horrible memento.” Then he perked up, whipping out the bird checklist. “Speaking of which, I want you to have this.”
“A pointless gesture. The guards will confiscate it immediately.” Simon told him, “Even if that weren’t the case, how do you expect me to take it with my hands behind my back?”
“You can use your teeth!”
“I may be chained, but I am no dog.”
“Oh really now? You had me hoodwinked, with all that vicious snarling and growling you do in court.” Fulbright stepped close, pulled aside the hem of Simon’s coat and slipped the brochure into one of its many covert pockets. “There. I know you’ll be able to hold onto it, sir.”
He’d reached unnervingly close to where the Phantom’s psyche report was stashed. Simon stepped back. “I… do not snarl in court. What nonsense.” He stumbled over his words, dull as a stone.
“But just the other day, when the defense presented some really good evidence, you made a ‘grah’ sound. I definitely heard it.”
Simon grumbled and ducked into the cruiser, done with everything.
“Sir? That looks pretty uncomfortable. Don’t you want me to reposition your hands?”
“Later. Don’t touch me.”
“What about your seatbelt?”
“I said don’t touch me.”
“But… what if—”
“Silence, Fool Bright. Shut your damn mouth and get behind the wheel.”
Fulbright frowned, but did as he was told.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep quiet for long: “All those taxidermy critters gave me the strangest feeling, like they were watching, you know? Well, it might just be me. I’ve been feeling that way a lot lately — probably because I haven’t rested as well as I should. It’s hard not to just work through the night! I’m sure you know how it is, sir. You’re a hard worker too.”
Simon provided no input and paid no attention. The status quo had snapped back in place like a pair of shackles.
The dust settled. Against all odds, he lived to see another springtime.
Simon gazes out the window of his office at the rising sun after another sleepless night. Whenever he sees this view, his duties fail to distract him. Inevitably, his focus falls to one of the room’s few decorations: A frame on the wall, which contains a creased checklist of marshland birds.
No one has asked him about it. On some distant day or month or year, when some hapless soul eventually gathers the courage to pry, he'll keep it brief. It's a sentimental memento. A love letter from a forgotten man. Nothing more.