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A Worse Idea 70

Eyes are a funny thing. They’re so ordinary, but so special. So commonplace, but so mysterious.

They say eyes are windows to the soul. Doesn’t that leave us all exposed? Why are our souls so visible to the rest of the world? And why do so few people notice them?

Prometheus didn’t go through these philosophical questions as he stared into Randy’s eyes, which were in fact the same eyes Katie had had, before she’d died.

Instead, one thought rang loudly in Prometheus’s head: Those are Katie’s eyes.

“How’ve you been?” Prometheus asked. There was a different tone in his voice, though. Not so much disbelief or doubt. He didn’t sound like he was talking to Randy, either. He had the voice of someone who was able to talk to an old friend — an old friend they thought they’d never speak to again.

“Seen better days,” Randy said.

Prometheus smiled at that. “I thought you were gone.”

“I am, kinda.”

“Not in any of the ways that matter.”

“It’s frustrating, to be put in here for crimes I didn’t do.”

“I know,” Prometheus said. He couldn’t have known, not really, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. “I’ll talk to someone. See if we can’t get you out of here.”

“Do you mean out of my body, or out of this prison?”

Prometheus paused. “I don’t know.”

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