Hello, all. I'm back again, and serious; I've rediscovered my muse, you see.

It's Saturday, and I'm back in Ms. Locoer's office.

'Are you still sick?' I write.

"No, I'm feeling much better." Ms. Locoer sighs and pulls a lock of hair out of her face. "I think it was just a case of the flu. People usually get sick more during the colder months, you know."

'So... did you hear about Klotz?" I write, tentatively showing Ms. Locoer the board.

Ms. Locoer nods her head sadly. "Klotz will be reprimanded," she says. I roll my eyes in disbelief. "No, honestly; he acted without departmental approval and will face the consequences of his actions." Ms. Locoer snaps open a can of cola and continues. "I didn't approve. In fact, I told him that if he came anywhere near you I'd have him strung up. Of course, he acted anyway; typical Klotz for you."

'If that's typical Klotz, why don't you fire him?' I scribble.

"He's the only one in his field who will work here."

I think for a moment. 'What about you? Kadic doesn't need two psychiatrists.'

"I haven't thought about that," replies Ms. Locoer. "Of course, I haven't needed to, and that's something that isn't exactly in my best interests to bring up. I have a secure position here; why jeopardize that?"

I'm not sure how to answer that. 'I don't know,' I write.

"Then we've agreed on something." The woman smiles and pops the tab on a can of cola, the sound loud in her small office.

'So, now what?' I ask.

"Now what, what?"

'What do I do now that I know I'm not going to get better?'

"You could've written that more concisely. But, honestly, I suggest that you let life move on. As you said yourself, there isn't a point in wallowing in self-pity. Cheer up and break a leg." Ms. Locoer takes a large gulp and grimaces as the carbonated sugar slides down her throat. "Figuratively speaking, that is."

'Why do you drink soda if it hurts?'

"What is this, Lucky Star?" Ms. Locoer continues. "Every now and then, it's fun. It's not that bad, and by enjoying it occasionally, it tastes even better."

I sigh and write, 'Whenever I see you, you're drinking.'

Ms. Locoer frowns. "I don't know," she echoes. "Anyway, is there anything that you want to talk about? I am a psychologist, you know, and a certified counselor. Didn't you see the papers on the wall?"

'I saw.' I erase. 'I just don't know what to talk about. I feel okay, I guess.' I shrug and erase again. 'I mean, school is fine.'

Ms. Locoer frowns again. "What do you do in your leisure time?"

'Read.'

"How's that coming?"

I laugh silently. 'What do you mean? It's like riding a bike, right?'

"Well, maybe you come across words that you don't know how to pronounce, or words that don't have a meaning for you yet."

'Context clues.'

"Oh. Well, do you ever feel a little down when you come across words like those?"

'I used to, but I now know that no matter what, I won't know every word.' I erase. 'So if I can't get the meaning, I just look it up.' I erase again and my hand looks even bluer from the ink. 'What does have to do with counseling?'

"Hey, why don't you work with me here?" Ms. Locoer shrugs. "I'm just trying to keep you happy; that's all."

'Sorry.' I show her the board quickly and erase it. 'I don't mean to annoy you.'

Ms. Locoer's face screws up. "What? Annoy me? Listen, girl, there is no way that your presence here could ever annoy me. Besides being your counselor, which could be reason enough, I actually like having you as one of my charges. You're actually a good kid, and as far as I'm concerned, you really outshine the rest. Remember that." She downs the rest of the can. "Besides, you keep me happy."

'I do?'

"Of course. Whenever I feel down, and, you know, that does happen, I look forward to seeing you smile when you walk through my door. I think, and don't take offense at this, that my problems are nothing compared to what you have to contend with. I still have my voice, and so I could speak to you at length with what's on my plate. You, however, do not have that luxury. And yet, you're normally very bright."

I'm really unsure of how to respond to this. I'm not used to taking compliments. Milly was always the one in front of the camera, so I'd normally hear the excitement, not feel it. Maybe they'd say something about how my hands weren't shaky during that episode, but there wasn't the same enthusiasm. For someone, especially someone much wiser than I, to compliment me feels like the highest honor.

'Thanks.' What else can I write?

As if seeing my inability to shape my simple thoughts into eloquent writing, Ms. Locoer stops me: "That's enough. We can't have you filling up that pretty little head of yours with hot air, now, can we?" We both laugh, and Ms. Locoer clears her throat. "Is there anything else that you'd like to discuss today, or would you rather go and relax?"

'Relax," I scribble hastily.

"Good, good. I'll see you again tomorrow." Ms. Locoer waves her fingers at me as I pull the door shut behind me.

Out in the hall of the HQ, I can hear a vacuum buzz behind one of the closed doors. The lobby smells like cinnamon, no doubt due to the Headmaster's latest hobby – scent. Every time that I visit Ms. Locoer, I can smell something different. Last Friday, when I first met Ms. Locoer, I smelled apples. The following Saturday, when I received my wonderful prescription for ice cream, I smelled freshly baked cookies. On Sunday, before I left for the doctor's office, it was roses. On Monday, when I had the laryngoscopy, the smell fit the tense mood that accompanies most Mondays – rain. Ms. Locoer was sick on Tuesday, but while I read the note on her door, I thought for sure I was in a field of sunflowers.

That was the same day that Sandra committed suicide.

Wednesday held the scent of cherries which surrounded me as I read another note that related that Ms. Locoer was still sick. Thursday, the day I met Odd again, had another note that said Ms. Locoer would be out until Friday, and another scent of roses. I think that's the Headmaster's favorite scent so far. And finally, on Friday, I didn't visit Ms. Locoer. I met Dr. Klotz instead. Unlike the previous days, that time was one that I could happily forget.

And now, it's Saturday, and I'm free once again. I walk to a vending machine for a can of cola, then to my dorm where I notice a package left outside of my door with a note attached. I grab it, walk inside, sit on my bed, and open the letter.

It begins with standard condolences, then shifts gears into an explanation of what's in the box. Apparently, my camera was recovered with our bodies when we were located. The police were holding it for investigative purposes, but I could have it back now. Alongside the camera was a small bag and a carefully wrapped SD card. Now, while explaining the SD card, the letter feels very light in my hands. This card holds, not only footage from the week preceding the earthquake, but footage of the earthquake itself.

I then realize that the bag in the box was my formerly missing stealth bag – the bag I use for candid interviews and shots. There's a hole cut in the front pocket which allows the camera to film as I walk and talk. Apparently, I had left the camera rolling when Milly conducted an interview with Jim, the PE coach, and I had forgotten to turn it off.

Then, the gravity of what sat beside me pulls my lungs into my gut. Everything from that day is recorded onto that tiny plastic card. Not only the interview, but the events of the day, the last moments I had with Milly and the moments after she was crushed and I blacked out. All of them.

I never thought I would see the camera again, let alone the SD card. I never thought of the card and what it held. I hadn't realized that I had used my stealth bag that day, so I was looking frantically for that, since my card wallet was contained within. In that wallet were most of the cards that I had used, since I first got the camera back when I was nine. So many things I missed, and so many things that I hadn't worried about were now in my grasp.

Remembering that I needed to breathe, I snap back to the letter and continue reading. The camera wasn't damaged in the quake. That is good. Everything is as discovered, and there is also a surprise in the box. The letter finishes with a note of gratitude for my patience and some contact information for the person who made sure my belongings returned to me at the police station.

My heart pounds in my chest as I slowly look back to the camera bag, camera, and card. Should I really look at what happened during the earthquake? Am I prepared to relive those terrible events all over again?

I pick up the camera and card, holding each object in each hand. They both feel too light to be real, but I know they're mine and I'm simply a little lightheaded from the revelation. Glancing between the two, I think I should have someone else watch the video with me. Someone who was as close to Milly as I was... no. The people who were as close to her as I was.

Exhaling, I set the camera down and rummage through my bag for my phone. I only have two numbers to dial: Aelita Stones and Hiroki Ishiyama. The familiar ring of the first number sounds too loud in my ears. It rings twice, and then a connection is made.

"Milly? Is that you?"

'Aelita? I need you to come over,' I mouth, before realizing that I can't speak. I quickly move to my computer, jiggle the mouse, and type into the web browser "Morse code." I know Aelita knows it, even if I don't.

Well, I have a reason to learn now.

"Milly? Is something wrong?"

I find a page, scan it, then start tapping my earlier phrase into the receiver with a fingernail, along with another message: "Bring Hiroki, too."

When I finish, there's a bit of silence. "I'm on way," I hear, and I exhale. "But next time, you know that you can text me, right?"

Feeling like such an idiot, I tap furiously on the receiver and hang up. I move to one of my cabinets and start pulling out familiar cables to hook up the camera to my TV. They're dusty now. It's been so long since I've needed to use them, and I know it's just the dust that's making my eyes water. Only the dust? Maybe a bit of nostalgia, too. Usually, there are two more hands helping me. Usuing only my own feels so strange.

Everything is connected, so I sit back on my bed and wait.

Relaxation, said Ms. Locoer? I don't think so. Not yet, at least.

So. Yeah.