From his second life, Cev remembered the name of a street, the smell of bread in a particular season, the quality of light through a window he could not describe. He did not know which window or which city. From his first life he remembered less: a sensation of heat, someone laughing, then nothing. This was more than most people retained. The Bureau's research put the average at three to five fragments per transition, mostly sensory. Cev's fragments were average. He had thought, at one point, that he might find the window. He had eventually stopped looking.
He had been a Transition Counselor for eleven years. He worked with people who had received their letters and did not know what to do with the information. The work was not grief counseling, though grief was frequently present. It was something closer to orientation: what to do with the time remaining, how to hold the fact of the assignment.
Today's client was forty-six. Her assignment had arrived eight days ago: a boy, northern region, a family in a highland district, seven months. She said: I was supposed to have more time. She said: the assignment isn't right. She said: I have a daughter, she's eleven, I can't do this in seven months.
Cev did not tell her the assignment was right. He did not know if it was right. He did not know how assignments were made. The Bureau did not explain its process, and the commission that had written the original report had acknowledged this gap without filling it.
He told her what he told everyone: there are seven months. You have the time that you have.
She left. He stayed at his desk for a while. He thought about the street, the bread, the light through the window. He couldn't remember the name. He remembered the light.