The Everlasting

SEVERAL YEARS AFTER the war, during the mid-afternoon hour I generally put aside to fantasize about setting fire to my manuscript and disappearing into the countryside to raise goats, I received a book in the post.

I was aware, as I unwrapped it, that I ought to be filled with awe or terror, or at least the simple thrill of discovery. But all I felt was an odd ache in my chest, and a sudden, sharp pain in my left hand. I flexed it twice, but the ache remained.

I tucked the book under my arm and left my office immediately. I knocked hard into Harrison as I rounded the corner, not even pausing to apologize.

I was halfway home before it occurred to me that I might be suffering from another of my delusions.