The next day, Doc was Doc, and never said another word about it. Sometimes, as the weeks passed, Ern would catch deep pain in the old man’s eyes when he didn’t know Ern was looking, and he felt the hot shame flush through him again. But that was okay. He’d earned that, and far worse.
What kept him awake at night for the next month was Doc’s admission that the project could take years.
It could take years.
Whole core-years off of Ern’s life. Cores when he wouldn’t be with Celine. Cores when everything could change. The last fourteen months since he’d left school had already seen more changes than Ern had once thought was possible. And sure, most of them had been good, even though they’d felt awful, but it stood to reason that his luck couldn’t hold forever.
He hoped that writing about it to Celine would help, but her replies just reinforced how alone he was. She said it was okay, and that she was working with Molly at her end, and that they’d be together again soon, somehow or other, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. He couldn’t see her face clearly when he closed his eyes, and the only picture he had of her was rotting from acid exposure because he was too stupid to leave it home and always insisted on carrying it with him, so he could look at her when he needed reminding why it was all worth it.
Well, she wasn’t the only reason, but she was an important one. And the only one he could carry around in a photograph—at least until it fell apart.
There had to be a way to speed things up.