July 7
I asked him if he meant his time or mine, but by the time I finished my sentence, they were gone. I really hate it when people do that.
I move over to the stone benches and low walls around the fountain, taking the old and rough marble steps two at a time into the recessed area. Small children are playing here, tossing change into the water stream as it flies up and down in the familiar arcs and pools. I fish a nickel out of my shorts and lazily flip it in from across the way. Heads, I think. Calling the coin has always been a bit of a game between Julian and me, and the fact that the coin immediately becomes indistinguishable from the thousands at the bottom of the pool has never stopped us from arguing about it.
Free will trumps everything. A week ago I remembered this rule as I wrote the note into the book, which over the course of countless years will make its way into the hands of people I will never meet. People I will never have grandchildren to meet. I started to think on this a little more as the week dragged on.
What is an Interloper? What am I, really? Am I human anymore? Am I someone who protects the future, or even has one? What, to be completely frank about it, is in it for me? Why do I have to do this job? Why me, specifically?
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