You’ve been pretty mad at me lately.
“Sebastionyousendletterbutnolettercomebackwhy? What. FOR?”
“I can’t control everything, Septemus,” I replied. It’s weak. I know. I’m your bizaabgotojo, so I know, logically, I should be able to take care of everything you need. And if you need to see your siblings, I should be able to find them for you, right?
It seems that way to me, too.
“Sebastionyouthinktheyallblackcrashexplodeknockgonetoo?” you asked me.
“Septemus, I’m sure not,” I replied. “Look. You were Number 77. Out of 100. That means there are 76 before you and 34 after you–”
“–Right. Twenty-three after. Ninety-nine, Septemus. They’re still out there. We’d have heard something if they weren’t.”
“But they no tell,” you said, for once not running your words together. “The agency don’t tell, and I am the last bizoopagotogo.”
I am sure you are not. It hasn’t been that long. I mean, when you’re a little tyke, like you are, sure it seems like a long time. But when you are an old guy like me, eighteen months isn’t that long to find somebody.
Look how long it took me to find you.