Reclamation

I’m really not sure how much time has passed since my arrest. The holographic calendar in my cell blinked its final rollover long ago. I can’t even derive an estimate by counting the lines on the back of my hands. But that’s the price you pay for reclamation. You grow up, you go through the chaos of puberty to reach young adulthood, but then you stop—never aging, never dying, until that which was lost is found. Read on…