"It will come in time," he says.
I don't tell him that I don't know what time is.
He doesn't speak, but I know he's there.
Watching.
Waiting.
I can pick up on things now.
Small things, like twitches of expression, and private eye signals. Things people don't want me to know.
Was this natural? Or a product of the bio-engineering.
I don't think I'll find out. I'm leaving tomorrow. Leaving, to go somewhere cold.
But first, I need to say goodbye.
He walks out of the bushes, a silent emptiness, where there should be something.
"Goodbye," I say. "I'm leaving tomorrow, I wanted to say goodbye,"
"I know," and then he does something I don't expect.
He kisses me.
And then he leaves.
'Goodbye Dane," I say.