Dr. Cecil Walker's 2nd Letter to Lillian

Dear Lillian,

I've written to Joyce about Jeremiah, and once I'm back in Maryland, I'll set up a private room for him at Johns Hopkins.

I'm going to have to compartmentalize. I know that's not ideal, but it's the only way I can function now, as a doctor, as a mechanic, as a therapist, as a man, as a -- well, what are we? All of us, I mean -- are we soldiers, like Douglas Henslowe would say? Soldiers fighting some insane war? Are we heretics? If these beings are real, and I don't think any of us doubt that, at this point, and if they have the power of gods, whether we choose to call them that, whether we choose to call them gods or demons or monsters, then, I suppose, we are heretics, aren't we?

And just what am I doing with Jeremiah? Lillian, I have read this story. Mary Shelley wrote it, and I do not like where this is going. How am I supposed to help him without turning both of us into monsters?

Do you know why I became a mechanic? I failed one of my patients. At least if one fails a machine, it's not a person. There's no need for guilt. But this? I compartmentalize. When I write to Joyce, I am talking only about the machinery. That's all we can work on.

But we all know a man more than the most complicated machine you can imagine. So many things can go wrong for him, and I can't even list them all. I don't -know- them all. Whatever it is that makes the difference between a man and a machine, that is what I am afraid of harming. A priest would call it the soul, I suppose, but whatever we call it, how do I keep it intact and healthy for him?

I suppose it is some comfort that the rest of his family and friends believe him dead and that he does not want to correct them on this point. I have no idea how to explain Jeremiah's situation to those who are not, as we are, beyond the pale.

Lillian, if Joyce succeeds -- if, between us, we create something that works and that Jeremiah agrees to, well, for want of a better word, "inhabit" -- if we do this and manage not to kill the man, what kind of life can he have? How many people, outside of our very, very small circle, would not want to kill him out of fear or continually experiment on him until they do the same thing out of ignorance?

What are we doing?

Yours,

Cecil