Perhaps a different day, a different time, a different location, but still: here. Immobile mentally. A disability that is currently manifesting itself...physically in a way that paralyzes my legs and feet. Peering through the cracked door, I observe meticulously painted, square shaped, silver toenails. They shimmer atop five, dainty, light bronze toes. They are digging into the very jet black carpet that I installed myself a year ago at her request. I observe those toes clench the plush carpet. First, one of the journals was filled with bad poetry, apparently the work of Georgia herself. They might have been from any age. The wide loopy handwriting at the beginning of the journal—”I love Bob and I’ll be his girl; he’s the hottest redneck in the whole damn world”—definitely spoke of a teenager. But some of the later entries in the journal were a tighter, more reserved version of the same handwriting, schooled by age and experience. One poem stuck out from all the rest—just a few lines. ”“She didn’t say anything about me,” I heard Blaine say. I turned to my right to find the senior helmsman leaning against the wall of the corridor.He smiled. “I figured that I’d be running the helm once we arrive in the system, and that you’d want to talk once we were jumped and Admiral Redmill couldn’t interfere or demand attention.”“Let’s head into my office,” I said with a smile. “It seems this will be a brief meeting.”“I just hope it’s a successful one. This mission has to be bad if you are. It's canning season, and the kitchen is filled with several bushels of tomatoes in various stages of processing, from whole in bags through juice in buckets to glop on the floor. Just to be sure, I read the instructions on the canning jars, and found that, in an attempt to protect itself from lawsuits and to please some anonymous department regulating our safety, the list of warnings, cautions and dangers was so long I almost put the tomatoes on the compost heap and went to the store for cans.