Gregory: I’m humbled to have you here, Kindness.

Kindness: Hi, Gregory.

Gregory: How are you?

Kindness: I’m grateful for your species’ presence on this planet.

Gregory: I don’t think we would’ve made it this far without you. You and Love.

Kindness: Love can be expressed in many ways.

Gregory: Tell me about it.

Kindness: In that regard, I’m a simple creation.

Gregory: Do you ever get mad?

Kindness: No. But I get disoriented.

Gregory: What do you mean?

Kindness: There are times when your species raises my name on a flag as if I’m your panacea.

Gregory: I don’t understand.

Kindness: Would you like to hear the story of a man who tries to do the right thing all his life?

Gregory: Yes.

Kindness: This story is about a kind, loving, well-educated, and well-spoken man—not an idiot or naive man.

Gregory: Was he born a kind man?

Kindness: He grows into one quickly. An orphan from birth, no one raises him but himself—a self-taught Samaritan. He lives in an orphanage across the street from the only library in town. He becomes the most frequent borrower of books—every librarian’s favorite kid. He accumulates knowledge upon knowledge, graduating school with the highest honors. This pattern continues at the University of the Highest Intelligence, where he eventually graduates and meets his wife.

Gregory: What profession did he choose upon graduation?

Kindness: Are you in a hurry?

Gregory: No, why?

Kindness: Please just let me tell this story in chronological order. I’m afraid of missing key events.

Gregory: I’m sorry.

Kindness: This story is also about his wife—the most truehearted friend anyone could ask for. She, on the other hand, doesn’t need to visit a library to borrow a book; her parents’ house holds more books than three of his libraries combined. Needless to say, she is well-educated and well-spoken herself—a kind and loving woman, a perfect match.

Gregory: Mhm.

Kindness: You asked about his profession.

Gregory: Yes.

Kindness: He’s got a BA in one field, an MS in another, and a PhD in a third.

Gregory: And her?

Kindness: The same. After years of studying, they move to another city to pursue careers in their fields. They rent a beautiful townhouse in a quiet neighborhood, just minutes from the city’s largest botanical garden. They have their first child at thirty and twenty-eight, their second at thirty-three and thirty-one, and their third and final at thirty-seven and thirty-five—all girls. At forty and thirty-eight, they adopt twin newborn boys.

Gregory: Were they happy?

Kindness: They raise their children according to the principles of a good-natured human. Meanwhile, the world moves at its own pace. At some point, humans begin to wonder if their interventions in that pace are also part of nature. Their wondering does not linger wandering. “We are part of nature; therefore, we should steadily progress our world at a preordained pace,” they claim.

Gregory: Did the couple support this claim?

Kindness: They’re weighing it daily.

Gregory: Were they happy?

Kindness: They are happy, though they are also aware of the suffering beyond their enclosure, which brings them sorrow. They have friends with whom they kindly disagree and friends with whom they agree. They do not tolerate unkind disagreements or governments that suppress those who kindly disagree.

Gregory: How did they cope with such fragmented happiness?

Kindness: They become writers after the birth of their second child—writing about me, love, pain, and suffering. She writes novels—he writes articles. She sells millions of books and wins numerous prizes. He becomes one of the most celebrated journalists at the most esteemed paper. Together, they co-write a groundbreaking bestseller, About Something. They influence millions both inside and outside the enclosure, create three local nonprofits, and support six overseas.

Gregory: This all sounds too good to be true. By the way, that book was on one of Dr. Ist’s shelves in his office. I meant to read it but ended up forgetting. It was years ago, back when I was in my early twenties.

Kindness: The boys are two years old when The Greatest War To Date erupts. She insists on traveling with him to the frontline trenches to report on the pain and suffering. He insists that their children need their mother to raise them—not a grandmother, not a grandfather, not any other relative. She concedes.

Gregory: How did the war begin?

Kindness: Each side has its own justification—and each justification holds a truth. Each truth is empirically supported by each government’s authority. The governments draft the majority of their people to fight in the war. Each person goes into battle, leaving behind everything but the truth. In the trenches, me, love, pain, and suffering become one.

Gregory: Did he enlist as a soldier or as a reporter?

Kindness: He enlists as a reporter, but upon arrival, he becomes a soldier. He quickly discovers that every soldier in the frontline trenches is also a reporter. Most don’t survive long enough to report back.

Gregory: Hm.

Kindness: He fights shoulder to shoulder with a gardener, a tailor, a welder, a gang member, a philosopher, an auto mechanic, a shoemaker, a theoretical physicist, an actress, a programmer, a businesswoman, and a fisherman.

Gregory: Did he learn how to use a weapon on the battlefield?

Kindness: Yes. In the thick of battle, he takes over the machine gun after the gunner falls—saving the welder, the gang member, the actress, the fisherman, and two nurses. None of them still long for their fallen fragments. The remains of the dead sink into the soil as they flee, despite his desperate efforts to gather their scattered limbs and carry them home along with his writings.

Gregory: Was his side losing the war or only this battle?

Kindness: They walk for days, leaving behind mountains and meadows—trenches upon trenches heaving with the dead. “I couldn’t have gathered them all anyway,” he mumbles to himself. The battle, or the war, you ask?

Gregory: Yes.

Kindness: All sides are homesick all the time. Those who advance hope to call the gained ground home any day. Those who retreat hope to call somewhere home someday.

Gregory: Hm.

Kindness: They finally reach the ocean, where they come across a friendly platoon. The platoon escorts them aboard their ship. The ship embarks on a journey to the nearest and safest shore, carrying the wounded and the captured, who are separated by a metal fence. The gaps in the fence allow former battleground soldiers to communicate hate. The discordance of their voices is repeatedly hushed by the ocean’s stentorious lullaby. The historians on each side of the fence are the most compelling communicators.

Gregory: May I ask a possibly inappropriate question?

Kindness: Yes.

Gregory: When did this happen?

Kindness: I don’t keep track of time.

Gregory: Did it happen before my birth, or will it happen during my lifetime . . . or after my death?

Kindness: I don’t know. May I continue?

Gregory: Please.

Kindness: The voices slowly subside as the polemicists can no longer bear the smell of their hunger. He waits until the voices fade entirely—leaving only the sound of the waves—takes his notebook from the inner pocket of his coat and attempts to dismantle the fence.

“I see pain and suffering in your eyes.

“I see love and kindness in your eyes.

“I see longing for home, missing your loved ones, missing your deceased friends.

“I see rage. I see the urge to protect all that is good.

“I see the small steps everyone takes toward making this world a better place. I see bravery and righteousness.

“We write and read volumes upon volumes of books about vast waypoints along the course . . . centuries of observation and the creation of words to aid delicately crafted descriptions. And yet, for some reason . . . ”

He stops and looks up. Almost everyone listens intently. But their eyes . . . He realizes that no one on this ship understands any less than he does. He feels like an idiot—a naive man. He closes his notebook, steps down from the wooden pedestal he had climbed to deliver his speech, and lets the boisterous ocean warp the ship. No one utters a word for the rest of the journey back to shore.

Gregory: Kindness, please stop for a moment. I thought about many things we might discuss . . . I did not expect our conversation to take this turn. Why are you telling me this story?

Kindness: What did you expect from this conversation?

Gregory: I don’t know. I didn’t have any particular expectations, but I thought we’d be talking about something more . . . uplifting, I guess.

Kindness: Fine. Tell me what you’d like to talk about.

Gregory: I just wanted to share my thoughts with you. I hope you don’t take this amiss. I’d like to hear more of this story.

Kindness: The ship reaches the shore. A helicopter takes off—and lands at the nearest airfield. A plane lifts into the sky. She drives for hours to bring him home. The airport personnel recognize her and wave her through the gates. The plane lands—she catches up with it. He sees her as it comes to a stop. She parks behind it. The rear cargo door opens, illuminating her quivering frame. Her headlights cut through the darkness, revealing stacked wooden coffins and soldiers drifting past her, aimless. He is the last to emerge.

Gregory: Were any of the soldiers he saved that day with him on this plane?

Kindness: No. They part ways in the port.

Gregory: Hm.

Kindness: She supports the families of the troops left behind in every way she can since his departure. She also publishes a book while he’s gone—her first illustrated book featuring her drawings. It explores a variety of embraces for different occasions. The final pages are dedicated to war. She spends countless sleepless nights contemplating the choreography and intensity of the first embrace she’ll give him when he returns—mindful of the wounds on his new body. That drawing appears on the last page of the book.

He walks toward her and stops at arm’s length. They stand on the runway, looking at each other, searching for what was never lost. Some time passes. She turns, walks to the vehicle, opens the driver-side door, and gets in. He joins her after a long stare down the empty runway. She starts the engine and drives him back to where he left. They don’t speak on the road.

Their children rush outside and stand in formation, eager to scamper around their parents when they arrive. She parks in the driveway, facing them, but leaves the engine running. He doesn’t look up. The eldest daughter halts herself and her siblings, holding them back from running toward the vehicle. Their maternal grandparents stand behind them. She meets her mother’s eyes, backs up, and drives away.

They drive for hours in the opposite direction of the airport. Still wordless. They arrive at a friend’s house deep in the woods and stay there for months—in silence. She takes care of him: bathing, cooking, dressing, undressing, shaving, shopping, doing laundry, chewing, feeding, and putting him to bed.

Gregory: Was he able to move around on his own?

Kindness: He returns with all his limbs attached to his body.

Gregory: I’m sorry for interrupting again. It seems that you’re leaving so many details out. I hope you don’t mind me asking questions.

Kindness: Here is . . . I do remember one night clearly.

The night they arrive, she brushes his teeth for the first time. She’s careful with her strokes—he’s always had sensitive gums. But as she finishes, she suddenly realizes a flaw in her plan: his mouth is full of foam, and rinsing requires intention.

After a brief pause, she bends him over the sink, turns on the faucet, takes a mouthful of water, and cradles his head in both hands. She tilts his face toward her, pries his mouth open, and gushes the water from her mouth into his—repeatedly turning his head to drain the leftover liquid.

She wipes his face with her sleeve and takes him to bed.

Gregory: Hm.

Kindness: The sides remain fully committed to mutual destruction when, one evening, while shopping in a nearby town, she hears the news blaring reports of unusual and disturbing events. Unidentified militia groups are setting fire to libraries across the world. No side has the resources to stop them. Each attack is released in a video.

By night, the militia arrives at a library, announces their presence through a megaphone, warns anyone inside to evacuate, and burns the building to ashes.

At the end of each video, a speaker declares:

“I see pain and suffering in your eyes.

“I see love and kindness in your eyes.

“I see longing for home, missing your loved ones, missing your deceased friends.

“I see rage. I see the urge to protect all that is good.

“I see the small steps everyone takes toward making this world a better place. I see bravery and righteousness.

“We write and read volumes upon volumes of books about vast waypoints along the course, but for some reason, we always end up on this ship.”

The bags slip from her hands like missiles from a dive bomber. She’s paralyzed. The first day they arrive at the house, she washes his clothes and finds his notebook tucked inside the coat’s inner pocket. That night—and every night since—she reads it cover to cover, memorizing every word.

After a few shots of the library engulfed in flames, the speaker continues:

“Warriors, unite! Rise against disinformation and the suppression of truth.

“Stop the warmongers before it is too late! Stop the warmongers before it is too late!”

“Now, we call upon the man who inspired us all to step out into the fading light—to lead our movement, to guide us into a bright future!”

“Here’s the sketch of our leader:

 

“If you recognize him, let him know—his army is growing in every corner of the world, marching toward all that is good.”

She bursts from the store, jumps into the car, finally picks up her phone, and slams her foot on the gas with what little strength she has left.

The first message is from her mother, whispering the expected: their home is swarming with authorities asking about her son-in-law’s whereabouts. The second is from their friends, groaning the unexpected: they had to tell the authorities where her husband was.

She abruptly pulls over—just short of turning left onto the track leading to the house. An armada of black vehicles, flanked by two helicopters, roars past her.

She pleads for permission to give up.

We don’t grant it.

Gregory: We?

Kindness: Yes.

Gregory: Can you tell me who you mean?

Kindness: Some of your guests on One into Zero—and others.

Gregory: Mhm.

Kindness: She catches up with the convoy, flashlight in hand, scanning each vehicle’s tinted windows as she passes. The beam bounces back at her. She resorts to trumpeting her presence. A light flickers on inside one of the vehicles. She sees him. He looks scared—lost. She doesn’t know how to interpret it, but for some reason, it gives her hope.

The authorities reach their building. She parks outside and waits. And waits. Her phone rings. She picks up.

“You may come inside. Someone will escort you to where your husband is held. You can call your lawyer if you like.”

She walks into his cell and finds him staring at her with the same look he had in the back seat of the vehicle. But now, she’s certain of its meaning: “Give up already!”

She doesn’t grant his plea.

The warring sides declare a cease fire—briefly united to broadcast a video in which his wife begs the militia to stop their activities. He appears at the end, silently staring into the camera. A speaker announces:

“Your leader is mute. He’s an invalid, incapable of lifting a finger. We will grant you full impunity if you surrender within the next twenty-four hours. It’s over. Give up.”

The burnings intensify, metastasizing to museums. There’s no end in sight. The sides agree to extend the ceasefire indefinitely and recall troops from the battlefields to stop the rogue militia from incinerating human knowledge and beauty.

That’s all I remember, Gregory.

Gregory: Mhm, I understand. Do you remember your childhood?

Kindness: Yes.

Gregory: How was it?

Kindness: Rocky.

Gregory: What do you mostly do now?

Kindness: Now?

Gregory: I mean around our present time . . . I don’t know how else to say it.

Kindness: Attend large-scale gatherings with those who give speeches.

Gregory: What type of gatherings?

Kindness: Where innovations are introduced . . . or political.

Gregory: Any interesting observations you can share?

Kindness: Not really.

Gregory: Mhm. Kindness, thank you for being here—and for sharing the story!

Kindness: Thank you for inviting me.