Graves keeps replaying the moment he knew to put on Delilah’s shoes, the mystery figure he’d seen playing with his girl. Not only had he been mentally replaying it but he’d written it down. Over and over and over again. The pages of his notebook sit open next to him on the floor. It had dropped, you see, and he hadn’t found it in him to pick it up. He simply stares out a window into the landscape searching for something.
Graves hadn’t found it yet.
‘It’ being the the panic, the fear and the grief that should come to a father that ‘lost’ his child. Lost was too weak a term, as though she were a pen he had put down in the wrong place without thinking. He only vaguely remembers exactly what happened. The only proof it was real is in the ache in his muscles from the electric shock. He supposes the ruined surroundings and corpses left scattered round should also be proof enough for him. He had been called a Prophet, told his lapses of a once sane mind were a glimpse into the future. Why could he only have enough time, enough foresight, to put her shoes on and not save her?
He feels the presence of another behind him, small quiet steps that stop and a hesitant intake of breath. Slowly, Graves turns to look at her, “What.”
