Monk 237, the other me, he sprints across the brown grass on legs stronger than mine. Even from here I can see the soles of his feet are nearly black with callous. He runs hard and strong, his hair waving behind him like a flag. I wonder if he knows who is chasing him.

My horse is stronger and faster than me, even this other me, the one who runs. He's lived in the wild for two years, since I made Detective. This one has survived. Perhaps he's killed a lion. An elephant. Maybe he's met Monk 117 or 943; maybe he has killed them. Someday one of them will stop running and turn around and fight. Then I will get off my horse and put down my gun. I look forward to that.

But Monk 237 runs, like all the others have run. My horse brings us closer, brings the other me into range. I raise my rifle. I line up the other me in the scope. He is lean and wild, his skin brown and tough. He has lived a good life, here on the plain. He hears the crack of the rifle, but he doesn't look back.

© 2003 Gardner Linn