The Trailing Edge

Previous chapter I was in the kitchen with the contents of several cabinets and drawers spread out on the table and the floor. I heard a quick knock elsewhere in the house, and then a door opening. “Ben.” Warren’s voice. “Let’s go. You’ve been cooped up most of the day. Y’need fresh air.” Warren was a fairly tall guy, whose father had been a Marine and a decorated cop. He knew how to use a voice of authority. He had used it in the classroom, and now he was using it on Ben. A moment later, the three of them were coming down the hall, but instead of going out back as per usual, Trevor opened the front door. “Want to help us wash a car?” he asked Ben, who promptly broke out into a grin. Without further conversation, they headed out onto the front porch and the driveway beyond. “Have fun!” I called out, as an afterthought. As soon as the door shut, I was up and headed toward the bedrooms. I passed the bathroom and proceeded toward my bedroom, and looked over my shoulder to s...

Previous chapter November 9, 2030, 11:00 p.m. I have just got to slip out of here soon and get to a library, or Starbucks, or someplace I can plug in and type like a normal person. Writing by hand is just bullshit. But as long as I can at least use a well-hidden Bic for this, and not a goose-quill, I guess I’ll manage. It astonishes me how long everything took in the 18th century. Even the “running hand” I was taught looks like tangled spaghetti if I don’t take my time. Only meditation (and occasional commiseration through looks and facial expressions with W and T) has helped me come to the realization that time is a concept and nothing more. BF isn’t expecting me to hurry through tasks the way a 21st-century person would ... and for now, we are 18th-century people and that is that. OK, so I’m relaxing, I guess, and will try to recall as much of the last couple of days as possible. And I really hope that at least one of the guys is doing the same, so it’s not all on me! T...