My thoughts drift back to Theodore Resnick in his prime, back when he talked me out of lecturing

and convinced me to join his foundation. Resnick stood over six feet tall, barrel-chested, with a large

walrus mustache. It was fiery red, but streaked with gray, much on par with the cigars

he was always so fond of smoking. Despite

his intimidating presence, Overseer Resnick approached every new discovery with a child's

energy and optimism. He was an adventurer and one of the founding members of the SCB Foundation.

He was the first overseer, one of the original five.

Those days are long behind him. They have been for years. I look at the man, my mentor,

my captain, as I have every day since he stopped talking, retreated into the prison of his own body.

His once prominent muscles have given way to age and sag off his body.

His skin is leathery and translucent, practically transparent.

His head tosses against the pillow, his mouth quivering with unspoken words. The cigars denied to him

for years lay mostly untouched in a box. But I lit one and left it burning on the window's

seal, just so that he can savor the smell. Overseer Resnick had retired quietly almost 20 years ago.

It was no grand send-off. He walked away quietly and left the foundation in the care of the next generation. Due to the nature of his work,

he was never close to his children. They had left him to rot in a hellhole posing as a nursing

home. After I found out, I filed a motion to have him moved to my site,

where he would have the best medical attention that money can buy.

In all my time here, it's the only motion I've filed that passed unanimously between the Overseers and the Ethics Committee.

The years have caught up with Overseer Resnick.

Not even the vast anomalies at our disposal could prevent that.

Yet, I still come and see him and report my findings.

...