Bobby's daughter

This is screwed up. Completely. I’m screwed up. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Or maybe I just went crazy. Definitely.

 I took a long pull from my beer, my boots hoisted up on the edge of the map table in the War Room. I can see signs of her everywhere I look. A copy of Slaughterhouse-Five left on a chair with the page corner folded down. The faint, clean scent of that shampoo she uses hanging in the air, cutting through the usual library smell of old paper and stale whiskey. The half-empty mug of tea by the globe—a stark contrast to my beer bottle. Little pieces of her, invading my space. Invading my head.

Attention:

• User is Bobby's daughter