7

“I think I'm about to get kicked out,” Byron humored, eyeing the guard who stood like all the guards before him, leaning against the wall. 

The guard nodded as he gazed at the clock on the wall. “Just about.”

“I wasted the whole time again, didn't I?” Janice asked, her icy eyes cast downward. 

“No, not at all, all of this is important,” Byron assured realizing he meant every word.

“But you're writing about the… about what happened to my friends, right?”

“Yes, but people don't read this stuff just for the juicy details. Well, some do, but you can't do much about them.” He laughed a little and was surprised when Janice did as well.  

“Most people,” Byron continued, “Read the kind of books I write to get to know the people involved, to help them understand what happened. People are confused about how these things happen. They want to read things that make even the crazy parts sensible to help put it in context.”

Janice's face turned grim again. “I don't think I can help with that.”

“Why not?”

“When I get to the bad parts… the parts I have stalling out … I don't think it's going to help anyone make sense of anything. It doesn't even make sense to me, and I lived it.”