Dear Leonard,

I’ve settled on where to start my private practice. A colleague put me in touch with a small farming community on the verge of becoming a proper town. The nearest doctor is several miles away, too far for serious injuries, and the mayor thinks that having a medical professional on hand will grant the place legitimacy. Business won’t be particularly forthcoming, but the mayor will handle rooming and medical facilities, and I’ve saved a bit from my work here. I can last for a long time there on a lean salary.

It is, frankly, high time for me to take my leave. Chicago has swelled since I arrived, and so has the hustle and bustle. I was nearly ran over by a horseback rider some weeks ago and it took my heart hours to stop racing. The hospital has been getting several patients with high fevers; I fear a cholera outbreak is on the horizon again. I don’t think I’ll last another year here. It is easier to endure when Reynard is in town; I sleep better when I’m not alone. But neither constancy nor affection are in his nature. He can say he adores me and it’ll feel like the greatest comfort in the moment, but then he’ll disappear for a month to ply some con with no warning. One might as well fall in love with the shadow one’s hand makes in the noon sun: never the same shape, so easily vanished.

Ah, but I can worry about him later. I am thinking of you. You should be finished with your research soon, and you’ll be able to visit me, doctor to doctor. If your boyish charm has faded in the hollows of academia, if your hair has thinned or your belly grown, it means nothing to me as long as you hold me the way you used to, for as long as you used to. Let me tell you of Reynard’s wonders and you can tell me of the secrets of Anak. Let us remember that there was a time before the world split us apart.

I’ll be out by the end of May. I’ll include my new address. Onwards to Henshaw I go.