Dr. Hoffman has put me in an impossible position.  No longer an historian, no.  A doctor obsessed with this road on which I stand as sentry: the road between life and death.  Her theories of curing me hold a fascination, and yet the vulnerability she presents by knowing my true nature is far more arresting.

More vitally, it seems that Miss Evans is quite alive.  A ruse of some sort?  Yes, to protect her from me.  Sage.

Dr. Hoffman is her attending physician, and has powers over the memories of Miss Evans.  Similarly, should the doctor die now, it would create far too much scrutiny.

I must countenance a fear I’ve been harboring for the past few days; this may not be an illusion.  That has been my theory, but Occam’s Razor may simply suggest that I have indeed slept until the year 1967.  They physical resemblances?  Perhaps a dementia?  Or some extremely persistent quality of the local lineage?

I will never cease to be amazed at the number of different ways that I can be wrong in a single day.


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