It’s 12:16. You always said this pocket watch was a waste of money, that the hinge would snap and I’d have to throw it out. Well, it’s barely holding itself together, and the etching on the back is all but worn off, but you were still wrong. The time is always correct, at least, and I think that counts for something. I’m outside today since it’s finally stopped raining. The grass is a little damp still, but it’s not that bad. There are worse things than wet grass. Today is the first day of fall, but only technically. It’s always on the same day, but you know as well as I that it’s not actually autumn until the leaves change and everything starts smelling like campfires, even though we live in the middle of the city. It’s not like everyone in the neighbourhood has a fireplace that they turn on at the same time, but it’s the same smell every year. I don’t think that’s going to happen any time so-

“Hey, watch it!” I look up just in time to see a black and white mass zoom straight towards my head.

“Bloody hell!” I dive to the side, dropping my pen and paper in the grass, and the ball comes so close I can feel the wind rush by my ear. We’re outside in the field behind the building playing football: Phoebe and 14 against Sanny and I. I hate sports, and was doing my best to not participate, so I chose to be in goal. They were all busy at the other end of the field so I took the time to sit down and work on a letter. This has not turned out to be a good plan. Rolling over to lie on my back, I stare up at the clouds until my favourite freckled face comes into view. It does not look amused.

“Wow, way to block that shot,” grumbles Sanford. “Maybe next time you could just stay still and stop it with your face.” Hey, it’s not like I want to be playing anyway. I ignore the idea that I should have broken my nose for the sake of winning and just grin up at him. His hair is a mess from running around, and with that look on his face, he reminds me of an angry little bird. He just rolls his eyes and steps over me to go get the ball as I sit up and begin digging through the grass for my pen. I don’t get very far in my search before I’m on my back again, this time because of 14 throwing herself on me.

“Oof!” The wind is knocked right out of me – 14 isn’t exactly light, being made of metal and wire-y bits and other stuff I don’t understand. It’s so easy to forget she isn’t a real person until she’s sitting on your chest and forcing the air out of your lungs. “H-hey, sweetheart! Was that you?”

“Yep!” she giggles. “I’m even better than Uncle Sanford, right?” I suppose I could make a better judgment if I had been paying attention, or knew anything about this game. I nod and agree anyway. It’s not like I could ever say no to that face.

“I have never seen a better forward, or winger, or whatever it is you were doing. You’re just the best all around, no doubt about it.” She lights up and looks very proud of herself for being able to almost knock me out with a leather ball. I don’t understand sports.  Why do people enjoy this, exactly? Oh, and now she’s grabbed the paper I was writing on, all crumpled now from me rolling on it. I pluck it out of her fingers and sit up so she falls into my lap, rolling up the page and tapping her lightly on the nose.

“My eyes only, Four!” I give her a mock Serious Business face, and she gasps and returns it, nodding sharply. No one ever sees these letters except me. Since Sanny isn’t back yet I’m going to assume the game is over, thank the gods. It’s going to get dark soon anyways. I reach behind me to grab one of the makeshift goalposts – my bag. I stuff the letter into to cluttered depths, between this morning’s newspaper and a half finished bag of cookies. Those are for emergencies. Cookie related emergencies, obviously. I have a lot of those.

“That was a pretty graceful save,” Phoebe calls from a few feet away. “I wouldn’t quit your day job though.” She’s carrying her sweater over her shoulder, smirking at me. She looks pretty today. Not that she isn’t always pretty, but today it seems effortless because she has her hair down and is wearing something other than work clothes, and I tell her that.

“Well, thanks! I didn’t think a lab coat would be appropriate attire for a day out.” Smiling, she spins around so we can get a good look at her outfit, and both 14 and I clap approvingly. Sanny has made his way back over with the ball, and Phoebe sticks her tongue out at him.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” she says, and Sanford pouts, pointing at me accusingly.

“It’s not my fault he’s useless,” he explains. “You would’ve lost too, if he was on your team.” I choose to ignore that – I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.

“Actually, I think we lost because 14 here surpasses us all in skill and sheer determination,” I counter. Sanny looks thoughtful for a moment, then laughs. He holds out his hands to 14 and pulls her off of me, with a bit of effort.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he agrees. I stand up and brush the grass off my rear, then pull my bag up off the ground. 14 looks incredibly pleased about all this, like she’s won the lottery or something. She’s doing some sort of little victory dance, and it’s absolutely adorable.

“I think we should celebrate,” Phoebe decides. “The winning ladies team deserves ice cream, right, 14?” Not phased in the least by the fact that she can’t even eat ice cream, 14 cheers and latches on to my leg. Phoebe follows suit and hooks her arm through mine, winking. I guess I’m buying. I hold out my other arm to Sanford, who only raises an eyebrow and drops the ball on the ground, walking away. Oh well, it’s always worth a shot.

--

Phoebe and Sanford are outside watching 14 do something – something fantastic, I assume – so I’ve settled myself into a booth in the restaurant. Is this a restaurant? No. I’m going to call it a ‘shoppe’, because that sounds about right. The only other person in the shoppe is the man who served us, and he’s gone into the back now, off to do whatever it is elderly shop employees do. It’s surprising that there aren’t more people here. This isn’t some big chain owned store – shoppe -, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s the best ice cream in town.

Anyways, I’m determined to finish this letter today, because it’s Monday. Monday is the day for getting things done because you’ve had all weekend to slack off, and you need to scramble to complete whatever you haven’t finished before it’s due. That’s how I work, at least. I fish a blue pen out of my bag, and attempt to neatly join up my new ‘o’ with the last one, even though it’s cursive tail is all wobbly and is in black ink anyway.

-on. The weather doesn’t change around here for another month, usually. That’s fine, because I prefer the summer anyway. We went to get ice cream, which is why the colour has changed. I’m sorry about that, I lost the pen I was writing with. Consistency isn’t everything though, right?  I’ve got strawberry, in a cup. Ice cream. I went off on a tangent, let me start over. You know nothing I write makes sense until I go over it a few times anyway. Bear with me.

I have strawberry ice cream in a little wax-paper cup, but no spoon. I’m being creative today and using a waffle cone, breaking off little bits. It’s much more efficient. I won’t go on about that though, I know you don’t like ice cream. My point is, that’s why I like summer. You can do things like this and they don’t seem like a big deal. If you wanted to get ice cream or walk to any other store in the winter, it would be all coats and boots and ‘why do you want to eat something cold in the winter anyway’? Everything revolves around whether or not you want something bad enough to go out in the cold. (And you’ll have to imagine that it gets cold enough to wear coats here, as I am trying to make a point.) In summer, you just want to go outside. You don’t make excuses to not do anything, you’re just itching for the chance to go out and do something with your day, to the point that you’ll think up things to do just to get out of the house.

I am interrupted by Sanford again, but this time I notice him coming out of the corner of my eye so I finish my sentence. He pokes me in the forehead to get my attention, then breaks off a piece of my waffle cone before popping it in his mouth and looking out the window. I frown as though he has deeply offended me, because that thing is delicious, but he doesn’t see. He’s busy smiling at something outside, although you can’t really tell. I don’t know why he always looks so worried. It’s like he feels guilty about being happy, so whenever he smiles it’s just barely noticeable.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Turning back to me and frowning (of course), he just shrugs.

“We’re ready to go whenever you are.”

“You two are always too busy,” I say very slowly - to set an example. “Slow down, stay a while!”

“You have all the time in the world to hang around, but I have stuff to grade. And I’m sure Phoebe does… something.”

“It is a mystery.”

“Whatever she does, I don’t have to see her if she’s doing it, so it’s fine by me.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“She’s not very nice.”

“You’re a great debater.”

“I know. Come on, let’s go.”

“Fine, just give me a second.” I fold up my letter carefully this time and stick it in my pocket, along with the pen. Consistency is not key, but I don’t like losing pens all over the place. It’s always a little disconcerting when you find a discarded pen on the ground, because it’s usually just the ink bit and the tip. Someone must be going around and taking the pen part of the pen for some reason. I do not want to supply them with hollow pen tubes for whatever dastardly scheme they are planning. Or I’m just looking too far into it. I look back at Sanny, who is paying attention to something outside again, waiting patiently. The sun is starting to set and when the light catches his hair it looks like fire. It’s still sticking up all over the place from before so I reach over and pat it down as I stand up to leave. He ducks away as soon as he feels my hand, snapping his head around to give me a dirty look even though he has no idea what I’m doing.

“Don’t touch me,” he mumbles, completely unconvincingly. I don’t anyway out of common courtesy. We slide out of the booth and I leave some coins on the table as a tip for Elderly Shoppe Employee when he returns from wherever he has gone off to. As we walk home, Phoebe and 14 are further ahead; Phoebe occasionally pulling 14 out of people’s gardens as she wanders in to look at flowers and garden gnomes and weird looking rocks. Sanford is walking beside me on the side closer to the road, as per usual. I have to look down at him because he’s a good bit shorter than me. He’s frowning, so I can tell he’s thinking about something, but I notice something I feel is important for him to be aware of. I’m in an informing sort of mood today.

“Hey, you know what?”

“What?”

“I like your nose. It’s nice.” He almost misses a step and looks at me like I’m completely insane. I know for a fact he hates it, thinks it’s too pointy, but I think it’s just fine. He’s gone from disbelief to sort of fish-like, and you can just see the gears turning in his head, trying to think up some snarky comeback. Turning his head to glare out at the road, he shoves his hands in his pockets and mutters something almost inaudible.

“I like your nose too. You freak.”

--

“I’ll be back in a while,” I call out to no one in particular. They’re all in the kitchen (née lab), where Sanford is teaching 14 how to crack open eggs with one hand. An important skill to master, I’m sure, if even Phoebe is interested. 14 wayes goodbye to me as I wait for the elevator, but Sanny is busy trying to show Phoebe how to hold the egg properly so they don’t say anything. I make a mental note to pick up more eggs on the way back, partially because I know the girls are going to completely demolish them, and partly because I hear a unanimous ‘Eeeeeeew!’ as the elevator door closes. I do believe the eggs have gone bad.

It takes a couple tries to get my lighter to start a flame; like everything else I own it is worn and barely hanging on to its inanimate life. I see no problem with smoking in the elevator; this one only goes to four floors, all of which basically belong to Phoebe, and I’m the only person in it anyway. I take a long drag from the cigarette and lean back against the wall, crossing one leg over the other. It takes a while to get down to the main floor – we’re at the top of the building, 142 floors up. I exhale slowly and stare at the buttons on the elevator panel. I don’t remember why I started smoking these things in the first place. For a very short while I regretted it, but now I just don’t care anymore.

Stepping out of the elevator at last, I get a dirty look from some employee because I’m followed by a cloud of smoke. I think she’s an Assistant or something. Normally I would stop and introduce myself, but I really just want to get out of here right now so I walk right past – although I make a mental note of the position and number on her name tag so I can apologize to her later. I ignore the name. Names aren’t important here.

There’s a big rowan tree at the very end of the field we were out in earlier. It’s been there ever since I can remember and there’s something about it that just sticks out, even though there are plenty of other trees out here. It’s about a kilometer away; our ‘backyard’ is sort of like a park, since there are so many people employed here. I probably find it so easy to recognize because I’ve spent so much time there. Not doing anything particular, just hanging around it, reading, writing, sleeping. I come across the ball we were kicking around earlier as I make my way over, nudging it with my boot. It’s not ours, is it? I don’t think I should bring it inside with me, because it’s probably here for everyone to use, not to mention that I don’t want to ‘play’ football again any time soon.

When I reach the tree I drop my bag by the roots and settle in to my usual spot. I can’t think of anything else to add to the letter I was working on, surprisingly, so I just sign it and stick it in a crumpled envelope. Rifling through the other letters, I discover I have about 4. I’ve really fallen behind. I usually come out here every day, but I just haven’t been able to find the time.

No, I’m only trying to justify not doing this because I feel bad. I don’t do anything during the day. It’s just getting harder and harder to let these letters go. I sigh and look down at my feet. Keeping them would defeat the whole purpose of writing them at all, but they’re almost like conversations now, albeit one sided. They were only supposed to be a recap of sorts, just to cover what he was missing. Now that I’m home I don’t do anything I think he’d find interesting, so I’ve taken to just thinking out loud. On paper. Whatever, it’s all completely ridiculous anyway. I know Odin is dead. I know there’s no way he’s getting these letters, no way he’s reading them.

I lied when I said I was the only person who saw these letters. Even if it’s not the person they’re written for, I’m sure there’s someone out there who is picking them up, because I always leave them here. There’s something comforting about that, and part of me wants to believe that they’re actually getting to him. A bigger part of me says ‘No, you’re a fucking idiot, sorry,’ but I’ve gotten good at ignoring it. I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet, all held together with tape, and pull out four 25 fraction coins. I put one in each envelope and don’t seal them, just stick the flap on the inside so it’s sort of closed.

Maybe one day I’ll put our phone number in one so whoever actually picks up these letters can use the coins to phone and say hello, but for now I think I’ll just keep pretending they get to somewhere else.