[Initials to denote the writer for each line have been added for legibility]

V: I’m hoping that this non-verbal method of communication is still suitable for times of great turmoil, Matilda. It’s concerning to see you so silent.

M: Thank you. It’s easier to write than talk. My voice is a weapon now. I killed Rosalee.

V: I surmised as much, given the wounds the mayor was sporting and the blood under your nails. I know it can’t be easy to bear.

M: It just feels ridiculous. I’m a comedian! A year ago I was singing bawdy songs and seeing which grizzled lowlife would cover my tab with enough flirting. I’m not qualified to be in the middle of this, choosing who lives and who dies. I thought I finally knew what I wanted. To make things better. To stand for something, a world of equals, one where I’m not just dodging the troubles I live under and ignoring the ones suffocating everyone else. And now I’m a murderer. Nothing fancy about looking down and seeing someone’s dead eyes stare back at you. Maybe all I can do is just cause trouble for other people.

V: You know, I kept thinking of you when I was kidnapped. At the start of it, we were in the middle of nowhere. Running into the cold with no direction would be suicide. I had no plan clever enough to get me out of it. So I just kept talking. Kept finding ways under their skin. If it would be my last week on earth, I was going to spend it making them miserable. And when I eventually did figure out a way to, if not survive my hanging, then at least make a farce of it, it was all that talking that gave me the room to maneuver.

M: So I taught you how to be an asshole. Surely Jonathan Edwards himself will come by to tell me I’ll never have to worry about going to hell again.

V: You showed me the splendor of being assertive and unrelenting. You never cut your words. You always act like you belong wherever you are, regardless of any evidence to the contrary. It’s practically suicidal for a Negro to be that bold to a white person, but I did it anyways and I think it shocked them so much that they didn’t push back until it was too late. Causing trouble and consternation can be very useful if you point it in the right direction.

M: And sometimes my points can pierce flesh. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that seething glare she gave me when I tried to choke her out. Like her offended face from the circus, but bloated with bulging eyes.

V: Mother says the memory of murder fades eventually, even in our natural lifetimes. You have plenty of time to tell a different tale with your life, or get used to telling this one.

M: At least I don’t have to worry about her rejecting me anymore. Killing a Confederate holdout has to be something she approves of, right?

V: One who tried to kill me? Using animals called to you by her own voice? She’ll be jealous she didn’t get to do it herself, but she’d adopt you as family on the spot.

M: Excellent. Really, truly, utterly excellent. I’m not sure if I’m insincere or not. I think there’s something evil in the roots of this country and your mother might be mad but she’s at least committed to stopping it. Speaking of, your father’s well?

V: He is never well, but by his standards he is lucid. He’s still weak from blood loss, which is concerning. His relationship with time is anything but human, but he’s not immune to endings, and there is always an ending. I never wanted to be a part of his, and on God I hope I’m not. Dying for my sake is worryingly thematic.

M: So you can’t help it because destiny or God says his time’s up, or you’ll solve it because you’re the Mad Cutter and you can solve any problem a body ever knows. Either way, I think he’d choose your life over his in a heartbeat, every time. From someone who hopes her father never tracks her down again, your pa’s got a good heart in there.

V: True. Thank you. I mean it. I know that I’ve cited you as abrasive in the past but I have started to value your company.

M: I don’t think I hate you anymore either. We can work up to being actually friends if you work that hickory pole out of your behind.

V: That seems unlikely even within the practice of werewrightwork. If you’re well enough, we should check on Geraldine. I think she’s been sneaking gulps of your emergency bourbon.

[Following was found on the back of the same sheet]

G: THIS IS GERALDINE AND I AM RECORDING THIS FOR FUTURE GENERATIONS. I AM GERALDINE MACY. TO MY LEFT AND RIGHT ARE VICTOR FREESTONE AND MATILDA WALSTEAD. WE ARE BEAUTIFUL, WE ARE BOLD, WE ARE NEVER GOING BACK TO HENSHAW, WE’RE GOING TO RESTORE AN IMMORTAL AND BREAK INTO EDEN AND FIND GOD AND COME BACK AND BASH WASHTINGON [sic] DC WITH A ROCK UNTIL WOMEN AND NEGROS AND THE TRIBES OF AMERICA ARE EQUAL UNDER GOD AND LAW AND I’M GONNA DO IT WITH MY FRIENDS. I’M GONNA DO IT WITH MY BEAUTIFUL FREINDS!

G: Head hurts. I don’t think I like alcohol. Do not remember writing previous statement but I do remember my friends being beautiful so I won’t contest it.