by Sophia Jirafe (skepticgirl@yahoo.com) *********** Dear Dana, This is...well, shit, this is really hard. If I weren't such a dickhead I would've called you. Thus fades the Scully courage. I miss you, sis. I love you. I'm sorry I left you to the tender mercies of Big Bad Bill. Okay? I'm sorry. You probably want to know about me. It's the same--Nairobi is Nairobi, the UN bangs its head against the wall, and I'd kill for a Snickers. Not to sound banal, but how's life? Still working on the stiffs? Got a boyfriend? Still breaking hearts like you were at Sacred Heart? Bill sent me a Christmas card with a picture of his kid two years ago. That kills me. Like any of us are cut out for parenthood, after being Private Scully, age five. Write me sometime. I do love you, you know. --Charlie She drops the letter. The child turns within her, and she does not cry.