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"...I... it's a distinct possibility."
He was. He smells damp. "And you don't think that's weird, or significant, or—"
"Must you interrogate, Charlotte? Day in and day out? I love you, but— I am doing my <span class="mu-i">best,</span> and I'd rather we moved on. Now, if there's anything I can do to assist you with your—"
It's relieving, almost, that Richard is getting tetchy with you. He isn't lobotomized, like Gil so rudely claimed. You didn't lobotomize him. He's just... nice! Yes! Nice, which isn't a bad thing at all. Him being your father, sort of, isn't a bad thing at all. It's only the disappearing that troubles you.
Yes, the disappearing. That's all, except the one other thing. What would you call it? The— the— complacency? The lack of awareness? He recognizes something's wrong, except he doesn't. He says he's doing his best, but has he done anything at all? Gotten any better? You and Gil are shaded under the table's umbrella, but Richard is awash in harsh noon sunlight.
"Um, I have a card for you," you say.
"...A card? For me?" He settles back in his seat and takes the sealed envelope you hand him. "Is this from you, primrose?"
No. It's from a lady who was actually a snake and also his coworker, who got a lot of other snakes to sign a get-well card (how? with their mouths?), because Richard got really messed up, and went to the snake hospital, after you killed him. It's from her. "Just read it."
"Oh, Charlie. You're that worried about me, aren't you?" Richard clasps your still-outstretched hand and squeezes it. "I do appreciate it. I do. I just wish you'd be less pesty about it. Shall I open this now?"
Gil, pinned in his chair, is driving his fingers through the lattice of the table. There is the sound of ripping paper. Richard sets down the empty envelope and stares at the card inside.
It's the shape and size of a regular greeting card, which is encouraging. You can't see the design on the front, which is what's furrowing Richard's brow, but you're thinking about standing up and creeping behind him when he flips it open and furrows deeper. "..."
"Richard?" you say.
"...I... I can't..."
"Are you okay?"
"I can't r..." His hand is jittering. "I can't re..."
"He doesn't look okay," Gil says insightfully. You throw him a Look, stand, and attempt to pluck the card back from Richard— who resists, clenching tighter. But he shudders all over, then, and works his mouth, and looks up. "I— I'm sorry, Charlie. I can't read this."
"You can't <span class="mu-i">read—?</span> Oh." You've craned your neck over. There is certainly writing on the inside of the card, but it's like nothing you've seen before: all triangles and lines, no letters at all. It's conceivable that the little fragments of it are names, or signatures, and the longer chunk is a message. But you can't read it either.
(2/3?)
