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"Welcome back to homicide, detective."

There were new things in the police these days. Computers. People who use computers, and people who feel like they're good at it. They showed me how to receive email, and I saw how my mom had sent way too many...It was my fault. I should have been there for her, and I should have been there when...when she was feeling those troubles and messaging me.

I walk around new york city, trying to get my pants blowed up in the subway winds. Any...shaking, unstable tremor...hah! It gets me right back to her. And I have slowly learned to appreciate how the ground shakes beneath my feet. When the ground shakes beneath my feet, that is her, her smile, and she lives.

And I live. New York City in 2013. Didn't we leave for the same reason? Let's walk into a public library.

For Somerset, that was pretty much it.I requested his presence several times in the clinic, but they said that he was done, and not going to come anymore. I can see his point of view.

Heh, I mean, after all, wasn't that always his point of view? Seeing the other person's point of view?

I still can't eat anything that comes in a box. I can't fucking open my fucking furniture. A clever fuck in the clinic told me I am quadratically challenged. I'd tell these guys who monitor me, and maybe induce them to play something melodic as I find books, but I know I'm no Somerset. I *KNOW* that.

My cellphone rings in the middle of Chaucer's Tales. I look up apologetically and try to find the precinct's bulletin FUCKING board! Then, oh, 'just check your email'.

Finally find the email and can shut it down. Famous politician killed, theatrically. Heh. I get into to the car and tell the petty officer, Frank, to drive to the murder scene.

"Step on it son," I tell Frank. "Gotta go, Serpico."