A vertical line of pixels flashes with mockery, as if telling me I am missing something of importance. I’ve been drafting my memoirs in a daring move to preserve who I am now for my future incarnation. It’s a simple plan to register my story, along with Donovan’s journals, with the Library of Congress. Upon our demises, the catalogue numbers will be engraved onto our headstones without explanation to anyone as to what they mean. In the next life we only need to remember our names and visit our graves. If we can do that, the rest will fall into place.

“How’s it going?” Donovan asks as he enters our home office. Placing a cup of tea next to me, he smiles with remembrance. My lips mimic his nostalgia.