My father is in the west wing at eight in the morning doing something I did not expect.
He is reading. A physical book, from the compound's small shelf, operational texts mostly, history, a few things Reth acquired over the years that nobody specifically chose. He has found the one novel on the shelf, which is there by accident, left by a crew member years ago. He is sitting in the chair by the west window reading it with the focused attention of someone who has not had the opportunity to read for pleasure in a very long time.
He looks up when I come in.
He closes the book. Starts to stand.
"Stay sitting," I say.
He stays.
I take the chair across from him. The west wing is the undamaged part of the compound, these rooms were untouched by the fire, and they have the particular quality
