They have mates, but you’re not here. It comes down to that, really. I’d see someone else alone, missing their mate, or worse I’d see a couple reunited, sometimes whole families all happy as can be. It just got to be too much. I‘ve lost count, Helen, of the number of reunions I’ve seen, and as a Cultural Translator, I meet most of the resurrectees.
I wonder what Amber was thinking when she arranged this job for me. Zoës don’t seem to have much of a grasp of human psychology. Okay, I should have seen myself in the first few weeks. So I almost made my “90 day review,” if there was such a thing. 85 days. I hate to be a quiitter, but I’ve had it.
It’s my fault, I suppose. I would always, always ask recently reunited couples how long they were apart. Days. One waited a week. I’m on day one hundred and fifty three, Helen. I tried leaving to see if you were in another twon, but that’s forbidden. I’ve tried waiting patiently, but that’s not my nature. Rock, meet hard place — the one at the top of my skull. I was never very good at changing who I am. I can’t refashion myself into a paragon of patience.
The most recent couple had been married a year longer than we had. Nosy me, I had to ask them, because when she said “forty six years” of marriage I felt something in my stomach twist up. Some couples get reunited. Some were only married a short while, but they got to be reunited. Not us. I know it isn’t anything you did. So I’ve been trying to figure out what I did that’s keeping them from resurrecting you. Even if it’s because I tried leaving town and we’re both being punished, what about those first sixty seven days? What were they waiting for then? So, I broke a rule on the sixty eighth day — an unwritten, unspoken rule — that we’re not to leave the region. Thanks, Amber, for the heads up. So eighty five days later they’re still punishing us?
Okay, enough of that. Rehearsing my anger isn’t going to solve anything. I’ll find another job. That’s one of the great things about this place. There’s no rat race.