here you are in Araquipa
collecting your mail
staying in a Bed and Breakfast
run by a cranky old Englishwoman

It was the cold that drove his hands into his pockets, where his fingers brushed against paper. Soft between index and thumb, a remnant from the previous winter when the jacket had last been pulled from its hook. He pulled it out, crumpled and shapeless, from his pocket and unraveled it carefully, fingers stiff with cold.

They sent me here, and now I am about to receive their last goodbye. I have been given final instructions which I plan to carry out as efficiently as possible. Twenty-one Stark days ago (71.40 days on Earth, rounded to two decimal places), I first signalled that there was something wrong with me.