Chapter 11: Getting Late
Bergman yawned.
Sawyer yawned.
“It’s getting rather late,” said Sawyer, noticing the light through the window had faded to a dark purplish colour. “We can finish this tomorrow if you like.”
Bergman yawned again and stretched as best he could.
“You’d really come all the way out here again tomorrow?”
“It’s not that far.”
Bergman got up and stretched once more.
“I wonder if my story was worth the trouble of coming out at all.”
Sawyer, whose fingertips were stained a deep blue, continued writing. “It’s not just a story, it’s a record. And if it happened, it’s worth recording. There aren’t many post-war histories.”
“I think in the early post-war days, people were more interested in surviving and re-building than in literature,” Bergman replied.
“Precisely. An
