Scene: Mayra and friend Brian are in a car, driving to the lyric opera (or some other equally mind-expanding snoozefest like a museum or an abortion clinic)
Mayra is talking about how graduate school is going, Brian is listening intently. Mayra looks down and sees a miniature journal.
It seems odd to her because Brian doesn’t seem the kind to write down his thoughts. It is presumed he has no hands.
“I didn’t know you had a journal.”
“That? Oh, no, that’s just something I found in a theatre. I think it belongs to the next Unabomber. Half of it is written in code.”
Mayra starts leafing through it. She flips through the coded section and her mind’s gears start processing the new information: the handwriting looks… familiar, the notebook looks… familiar and the philosophy and non-sequiturs look… familiar. But how can she be sure?
She flips to the last page and reads something written in a different style handwriting and different pen:
“Pixel,
write to me, I love you,
your cousin
Claudia Q. Styx
…
Oh, and if one of your friends named Mayra finds this, she should know to give it back to you, because the overwhelming coincidence of it all at least deserves a blog post.”
Then an e-mail address.
Mayra, having graduated at the top of her class and being, by all accounts, really smart, figures it out.
“Yeah, sounds crazy. So, where are we eating?”
Somewhere, 100 miles away, Pixel’s ears are ringing—it’s cancer.
Ironically, he didn't see it coming.