So I've been quiet lately; I know that, and it's not really a natural state for me because I do like attention and adoration and all those warm-fuzzy slightly-conflicted things, but it's because I've got this horrible waterfall of words forming and I think if I start to write about them, it's all going to just come bursting out. You know how if you put a white piece of cloth over a bloody wound how the red just spreads? It's like that. I don't know how on earth I'm going to be useful in caring for the baby. I'll love him - I already do, strange as that sounds - but I wasn't a part of his life when he grew up in the books. Maybe that was for the better. Annie's so strong; she can take on anything these days, but I'm forgetful and stubborn and I don't like asking for help and I keep remembering things and what if I'm a terrible father? I'm supposed to have died. Everyone likes a martyred hero, right? No one likes to see what happens if they survive and they can't function in the real world. And here, I can't do the only thing I know how to do - kill people and steal secrets from the curled hair of the bourgeoisie - so how do I contribute? How do I keep him safe? How do I keep him at all? I heard that they take children when the parents can't raise them correctly; if they tried to take him I'd rip them apart, I'd rip them apart