It took Harry a whole week to get up the courage to send the message.

A week. A week of writing and discarding communications, of pacing back and forth in his apartment, of trying to move on to the next story only to find himself thoroughly stumped by writers’ block—a phenomenon he’d always insisted did not exist.

He didn’t know which he was more afraid of—the potential crushing disappointment, or the possibility that his family might somehow find out.

He wasn’t really happy with the message he finally came up with, but decided to send it anyway. Otherwise, he feared he would never get anything else done.

To the hospitals of sector 1658
Dear Sirs and Madames,

(Was that the way to begin such a letter? He wasn’t sure.)

I am writing regarding the explosion of the science station ___, which occurred a year ago last month. I would like to inquire whether you received any patients in the next few days with injuries that could have been caused by the burns associated with such an occurrence, particularly a woman in her forties, blonde, with brown eyes. Average height and weight. Probably a white ring on her left ring finger.

If so, please let me know immediately. I am looking for my mother, who was a victim of the explosion in question, and am hoping you can give me some information regarding her whereabouts if she survived.

Sincerely yours,
Harrison Lloyd.

He had decided to give his mother’s maiden name, for fear of word somehow getting around to his father that he was making inquiries. His father would be worried all over again. It was bad enough to have a son who never visited and never called and went traipsing around the galaxy in search of a past that wasn’t really even his. To have a son in denial, which would shortly be followed by a son beset by depression—

Yeah. He didn’t need to put his father through that.

He pushed the send button at three twenty-three a.m. and let the message disappear into cyberspace.

His writer’s block vanished like a weight being lifted from his shoulders.

After all, the next story was quite possibly his own favorite.

He set down his pad, commanded his desk lamp to turn on, and reached for a new notebook and a pen.