I am here in this distant place, where the maid service is invisible, the food is good, and the bed is comfortable, with enough money from Bituba’s stash to support me for a lifetime, a new face, eyes, fingertips, and footprints, and blurs on a few of my genes where they won’t interfere with life support. Only the ferret connects me to anyone else. Only my drawing connects me to who I was in Rehab. Yesterday, though, the waiter who brought my room service tray saw a sketch I’d done, my recollection of Bituba before she changed her skin color and the shape of her nose. He asked if he could have it.

I couldn’t see what appeal a picture like that would have for a creature shaped like a squared lump, with a few stumpy limbs, a featureless nodule for a head, and a bowtie. I was flattered, though. Then I thought twice. Perhaps he was the kind of creature who leaked things to whatever passes for media here, and he recognized Bituba. Can’t let any of that out. Plus, I’d coded on her face, and I can’t believe I’m the only one left who remembers Pitcairn pothooks. I drew a portrait of the waiter instead and gave it to him. He seemed just as pleased, if I interpret the flushes of color across his flesh correctly.

Here where it’s safe to wonder, I think about Ruritraya, and wonder if a Hero will knock Rusty off his regent’s throne before I go back there.

Maybe I’ll draw him a postcard. First I have to finish my forest.

About Martin H Greenberg

Martin H. Greenberg, often called the king of anthologists, has compiled more than one thousand anthologies, including the Murder Most…series and the American Ghosts Series. The president of TEKNO books, he lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin.