From the Diary of Mark Peterson, June 7, 11 A.F.

The supervisors here are idiots. Not sure what's worse, them or the pestilence around us.

Oh yeah, "Dear Diary."

Saying that we're understaffed doesn't even begin to cover it, but today they insisted that I team up with another therapist. Not even "team up," really, but just follow around. "Learn the ropes," they said. Apparently I have a bad attitude with the patients, and I've been doing more to hurt them than sooth. I just administer a different brand of therapy, alright?

So they put me with this other guy, Jordan or something like that. Has a French name but no accent, probably from across the border. Or whatever is left of the border, really.

We saw about a dozen patients today, and not once did I hear the guy say a word of truth. Besides his name, but what do you expect?

He went on and on about how the rebuilding efforts were going, how the city was once again beginning to have upright towers and busy streets, how Central Park was green with the coming spring. What a load of bull!

I can hear him now in my mind, talking to that old woman who had a herb garden before the war.

"Spring really has come this year, and it's brought with it a bounty of sights and smells that the children have never seen before. All through the parks you can hear them laughing amid the tall, unkempt grass and climbing the few gnarled trees that survived."

He even went as far as to tell her that he'd bring a few sprigs of herbs for her to smell one day. With his luck she'll be dead before he has to make good on that promise.

And why the eff do we have to write these journals, anyway? All they do is make me more frustrated with the whole thing. That's it, I'm out for the night. Got another load of this tomorrow.

The End

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