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The Sincerest Form

By W.G. Hopkins

Bars of light crossed my desk, carved from the sun by the open window. The
scent of hot asphalt rose from the path that led to the capitol buildings.

Beside me, Dr. Singh motioned for the guards to bring in Dr. Norman Terriault. He looked pale. I motioned for him to sit.

The guards stood on either side. The officer saluted.

I closed the window. A faint buzzing hovered in the air.

“Why me?” Terriault asked.

“You must be familiar with the work of the Imitant Office,” Singh consulted his tablet, “Dr. Terriault.”

“I’m just like both of you.” Terriault leaned forward, the guards pulled him back.

“Apparently,” I said.