The children are responding well in the temporal dysmorphia chambers, and I expect them to be released soon and lead relatively normal lives going forward. My own fate, however, is more problematic.

The Executive Committee has thrown the book at me. Several of the pages flew out and become Mephshædes, who now lurk outside my door and approach me menacingly whenever I leave the building. I can shake them easily enough, and am turning them back into paper one by one, which I then place in the recycling.

The book itself, left in a heap at my doorstep, molted and took root. Vines and thorny brambles are now attacking the foundation of the building, and the tiny flowers that cover them emit a pollen that makes my skin itch.

It's clear they're hoping to drive me out, but if that doesn't work, how far will they go? I could easily pick up and leave for Florida, but I've put so much work into this position, it's hard to give up. Plus, I love the children.

It's been four days and the children are still unconscious. It's a wonder their minds weren't completely blown, given the depths of their exposure. But my faith is growing that continued confinement in the temporal dysmorphia chambers will slowly ease them back to some kind of "recovery," though it's a given they'll never be the same.

As High Counselor and keeper of the Time Sanctorum, I can't help but feel partially responsible. I'm sure the security audit will be eviscerating. But really I'm just focused on these children and trying to get them well again.