“…I have a Bobby his nayme is bruther and I theen I an dun riding and I have a bocks to put this into thats Bobby sd full of quiyet air to last a milyun yrz so gudboy gudboy every—brother, Im goin to stob gudboy bobby i love you it wuz not yor fait i love you
forgivyu
loveyu

sinned (for the wurld)”

The writing ends there, the paper ripped as if forced out of the typewriter. You peer inside the machine and see paper remaining, but once you unjam it, the paper you retrieve is blank. So much for getting the rest of the story. You’d have liked to uncover more about what happened to all those who were affected those years ago.

The surrounding area on the small desk is empty but for dust and unidentifiable debris. Interestingly, the chair is positioned as if someone pushed straight back, perfectly, from the desk and just stood up and walked away.

The account of the man’s loss in mental capacity was accounted perfectly on that paper. Your father and brother went through the same motions. Not for the first time, you feel guilty that Mom and you were somehow immune to whatever was infecting everyone around the world. You could still think clearly, but what can you do with that anymore?

The rest of the room seems to have been left tidy and untouched. You try to place the man, whose descent into “sillyness” you just read, in this room. Limp, sheer curtains; large, pale blue area rug; a twin-sized bed with nearly wrinkle-less covers. You can’t do it. The papers (manuscript?) told more about the brother, Bobby than anything else. After rummaging through the small room, you find nothing useful to take away. Except, of course, the writings. You shove those into your backpack, take a sip from your canteen, and close the door gently on your way out.