When the book was written, it had four parts, not three. I wondered, then, why I had written the last part. It was simply not required in the world of that time, there was no force, no pressure then that bound individuals into controlled groups.
Not printed then, I forgot Part Four for nearly fifty years. I have no idea how the manuscript survived a dozen moves and the turbulence of my life.
Yet one day Sabryna found a lost set of typewritten pages, and she read it.
She came to me with the strangest smile. “Have you seen this?”
Not a word, she handed what she had found.
I read for a minute or two. “This is… an old Part Four! It was thrown away, before Jonathan was printed. The book didn’t need it, publisher never saw it. How did it…where did you…”
“It was way down, squashed at the bottom of an old box of manuscripts.”
I read the faded thing. All of it, written by a young kid, put away where he’d never see it again. A story that made no sense to him, but all of a sudden it made sense to me, living in a future he thought would never happen.
“It’s the kid’s writing,” I said. “It’s an antique literary thing, yet…”
“You need to publish it.” She knew that from her first reading.
“It’s a little late. It’s an antique, now.”
“Send it to the publisher. Antique or not. She needs to see this.”
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