Page 53 of Omega’s Fold

“Then we have a non-progressing prime match.” He turns another page. “It happens. Not as often as the press would have you believe, but it happens. And when it does, we have a process. The process is there to protect both parties. I’m going to walk you through it.”

He walks me through it. There are forms. There is a waiver. There is a clause about future contact that prohibits either party from initiating Bureau-mediated re-matching for a period of twelve months.

There’s a lot of other stuff but, if I were to be honest, I’m barely listening. All I need to know is where to sign because it didn’t work out.

I sign where he points using a cheap blue ballpoint with the Bureau’s name on the side.

When I have signed everything, Sun closes the folder and folds his hands on top of it and looks at me.

“Well,” he says. “That’s that.”

“That’s that.”

“I will say, Mr. Duffield, that I am sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Thank you.”

“Prime matches at this compatibility very rarely don’t, in our experience.”

“I’m aware.”

“I had hoped, when you went out, that the issue was simply one of access. That you would meet, that the chemistry would do its work, and that the two of you would proceed. Most do. I gather there was chemistry.”

I do not answer him.

“Well,” he says again. He stands. He offers his hand. “Best of luck, Mr. Duffield. The Bureau wishes you well.”

I shake his hand and give him a polite goodbye when really I want to tell him to fuck off.

I’m due at my mother’s for Sunday lunch the following weekend and I am not looking forward to it.

The house is the house I grew up in. It is a brownstone two streets back from the park. My mother opens the door before I knock.

“Julian.”

“Mom.”

She puts both hands on my face. She looks at me for one second longer than a hello requires.

“It’s wonderful to see you, sweetheart,” she says. “Go and say hello to your father. We’ve been dying to hear everything.”

The front parlor is warm. The fire is laid, not lit. My father is in his chair with the paper, glasses down on his nose. He folds the paper when I come in.

“Well. Look who it is.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“You look thin.”

“I’m not thin.”

“He’s thin,” he says to my mother, who has come through behind me. “Cara, he’s thin.”

“He’s been on a ranch, John, what did you expect, leave him alone.”

“I’m not thin.”

“He’s not thin,” my mother agrees, going past me into the dining room with a stack of plates, and she pats my chest as she goes. “He’s tired.”