The first year is kind of a blur. There was a lot to get used to, and things were changing as fast as you could acclimate. And then there was the way you haunted me. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing you, either still swaying in the wind, clutching a thin trunk, or lying on the ground, just a splayed-out skeleton, too small to be real. The group formed friendships—that’s inevitable in any situation, but especially in ours.

After a while, we learned to let go, to not be sentimental about things or people. Things and people were one and the same—they could be lost, moved, taken away, broken. No use in getting attached. It was much better to form a friendship with the one thing that couldn’t be taken, someone who went with you when you moved: God. He was our friend and our father. He listened. He watched. He was constant. In fact, it was He who finally gave me peace about you being left out in the wilderness. If He was watching over me, then perhaps He was also watching over you. Perhaps you had been found, too, and taken in. Or perhaps the end had been swift and painless. I found peace in that.

After that, I was separated from the herd. A few others and I, all around twelve or thirteen years old. That’s when they start training us for the intelligence program. All of us were still stuck on our before lives, of course. So at first, we wanted to escape, to burn everything to the ground, as it were. But after some time, after being taught the reality of the world and the important role we could play in it, well, we started to see the light.

Mind you, it was an intense program. We spent a lot of time isolated, away from the others who were too old or too stubborn to change their minds and hearts. Sometimes we were even kept away from one another. But I had the Holy Bible to keep me company. I must have read it front to back four times in that first year alone. Now, of course, I understand that’s not such a feat. Now I understand it was just desperation. We carry the words in our hearts. There is no need for paper and ink. That’s a crutch, an introduction.

I didn’t get to go on any of the early missions; my leg kept me grounded. But again, small graces. It gave me more time to be mentored. I stayed in the offices and labs. I heard things. I learned things. I was brought in to help in other ways, ways that gave me insight into the future of the REM recovery mission.

It wasn’t all admin work and running errands, either. I had my trials. I joined the doctors when they did procedures. I helped deliver vessels to the crematory. I tried to calm new students, especially the very young ones who were alone for maybe the first time ever. Some days I had questions; most nights I questioned everything. It’s hard to devote yourself completely to logic when you have to face yourself alone at night, knowing where you came from, knowing your own family members had met the same fate as those you helped lay to rest.