This was Not-Richard. This was the man who sung him siren songs of ‘tomorrow’. To think of ‘tomorrow’ instead of all the days that haunted him. The Mondays, the Fridays, the Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays. The Saturdays and the Sundays – and worst of all, the Todays. He wanted to touch his shoulder, reassure him, run off with him into the sunset-

This was both entirely too intimate and not intimate enough.

Zechariah circled around back to the front of the desk, taking the seat and looking tense.

“If I thought you were what?”