Dear Wade,

I'm writing you this note because...well I'm not even sure why really. Maybe it's because you are so sick, and the way you speak of my double in your delirium touches my soul. Maybe it's because I have seen so many like you come through these doors, and stood impassive, turning away from the pain of their suffering. I've cut myself off from them...seeing too much death will do that to anyone I suppose.

I have no right to be writing in your journal like this. But my fear is that you will never read this entry anyway. And I feel as though I should get to know you. You, this strange woman who calls out for me to save you...but it's not really me you're calling out for is it? Yet something about seeing you here, so helpless, makes me me feel something...something I thought I'd lost. I want to know you. I want to see you smile...know that you won't die like the rest of us in this mess. You've touched me somehow.

No...you will probably never read this sweet Wade...but I feel I have to leave you a moment of me. Be peaceful. Rest. There will be an end to the pain soon enough. I dread to see that day come, though I fear it fast approaches.

Quinn Mallory