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Once all the tears had subsided, he pulled out a rectangle from his bag that opened like a book, but sat up sideways. I glanced from the books and sci-fi magazines occupying every inch of wall in the cabin, back to the open thing on the desk in an attempt to identify the object.

“It’s a lap top,” he said. “I know you can’t write, but you can type.”

The rest of our last day together Phil showed me over and over again how to write on a lap top, and how to change the batteries. Of which he brought 7 extra. I thanked the only friend I’d ever known, and watched him limp out of the woods to his blue pick-up truck on a breezy autumn day, the setting sun silhouetting his form. That was many years ago. The sobs and howls still creep up on me from time to time.

I am on my last battery now, so it was time I write this all down. When my time comes, I will carry the lap top with me to a place I know my body will be found. My hope is that by finding and studying me, humans will finally understand who and what I am. And hopefully come to understand, as Phil and I did a long time ago: Do not fear or hate or hunt the unknown; care, and we might not be strangers anymore.

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