I went home to open the letter with the handwritten address. Sometimes, if you look closely, you can see that it's faked and it's actually stamped on a cellular bill. This one had the imprints of a ballpoint pen. I tore the top with an active hive in my lungs, it felt like. The letter read as follows:

Dear Nicole,

Nikki! Nik! I want to write to you as your bro-migo. Dude, my boss found you. Did you know that 'boss' in Spanish is 'jefe?' I'm learning so many new words from the Mexicans! Dude, I regret having you leave like this. I miss you. I miss you and what you did for me. You were one of the awesomest people I've ever met!

All of my friends are in Manhattan the next couple weeks. The boss wants you back with me. IMO, we had a pretty fun time together. I totally hope you feel the same way. We can talk about it more if you want.

Call me. My number is (xxx)-xxx-xxxx.

Signed,

Al

The letter itself was not so shocking as was receiving it. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling to know they could have found me so easily; it wasn't realistic at the time that they would come look for me. I, like many others, was replaceable—apparently not quite; I folded the letter and put it on my dresser.

Remembrance of these earlier days brought that Francis was no stranger; I had seen his face once or twice when working with Alfred. I chose to palliate those memories with new ones. By now, it was a blur. I had not cared for the past. I learned to live in the present—I remember why I left in the first place. I spent most of my days in government buildings, talking to people I forgot. I never went outside, saw the sun, but I knew that I needed to. I knew I wouldn't be young forever; I wanted to take advantage of it while I had the chance.

I knew who the 'Allied Forces' were. I knew about Alfred, and I knew about who he was, but I never looked into it too much. I AM America. It made sense on a metaphysical level; I let it go.

I curled the corner of the paper and considered for a moment what it would be like to return to my old job. I decided to call the number— 'star 67,' of course. Just to clear things up. The phone rang for some time.

"Alfred?"

"Uh, Nikki?"

"Wait, how did you know it was me?"

"Your voice is really obvious. Anyway, what's up?"

"Uh," I choked up. "I just wanted to know…"

"Oh my god, are you crying?" He laughed. As soon as he said that, my tears ran right back up to my eyes like a teenage boner at the sight of his grandmother.

"Wait, no, what the hell?" I cleared my throat. "I just wanted to know what was up. You, know, I got your letter and stuff."

"Yeah, man, I figured."

"Umm,"

"Anyway, you would just follow me around, I guess, and be an advisor. Whatever."

"That's a little vague." I said, feeling skeptical. It almost didn't sound like Alfred—he sounded somber.

"Just come meet me tomorrow at the United Nations International Headquarters. Do you know where that is?"

"I mean, I've lived here for however long, so…"

"Okay. Just come as a visitor and meet me near the gift shop. Do you know where that is?"

"I think I'll figure it out, Al."

"Sounds cool! I'll meet you tomorrow. Be there, or be square," he said, "at nine o'clock."

"Alright, I gotta go."

"See ya, dude!" I hung up after hearing a click. I was very concerned; I knew it was taboo just to leave a job like that. I felt in my heart that that was what I needed to do; It was a whole other ordeal now that they were coming back to find me.

I went in my closet to dig out some "professional" clothes that I bought a while ago. What I bought was inspired by one of those working-mom magazines that inspire you to try harder.