You died in an airplane crash last night while I was in deep sleep. I was sad but not ruined. A flight attendant in her earthly blues gave me a small green soft plastic nightlight with your name on it. I picture it still glowing about a foot off the hardwood floor of my bedroom. And this is how I remember you.
Meeting Room Q
Holden glanced around the oblong conference table jammed into Meeting Room Q. The mouse-shaped communicators on its glass top clicked and whirred, zipping data directly
July 5, 2021
