Lester looked at him. The old man's expression in the glow had morphed. He no longer seemed soft. If anything, the light had recast him as lifeless.

“I can't even quote verse to you. Once a man starts questioning his faith, there's no longer faith to be questioned.”

“I'm sorry, Mayne. Maybe it was silly of me to expect answers. I want to believe,” Lester said. “I just need a little push back into faith. That's what you do, isn't it?”

“You're an engineer, Lester. You understand technical terms, so I'll speak in technical terms. I only catalyze the reaction toward some kind of equilibrium; I can't speed it in one direction or the other.” Mayne slowly swiveled toward his desk, an act that required much effort on his part given the reluctance of his chair to turn. “No, I can't use the Bible to help you, but I can help you feel at peace with your beliefs.”

Mayne reached for one of the taped pages on his wall and handed it to Lester. For the first time, Lester realized that the scrawlings about the room were not notes and Bible verses as he had expected, but poems.

“What is this, Mayne?” Lester asked.

“That's Hope. It's what you're searching for,” Mayne said. “I recite it any time I feel lost. It's beautiful. And it's an important reminder: there is always hope out there. Somewhere.”

Lester stared down at the page in his hand. The poem had been messily transcribed in swirling ink. The Darkling Thrush. It was a long poem and would take time to appreciate, and suddenly he felt out-of-place and embarrassed, starkly aware of his own presence. He felt as though he had just overshared after a single drink at a Christmas party. He stood up.

“I better get to Engineering. I won't take up any more of your time,” Lester said. He offered Mayne back the paper. “Thank you for this, really. I'll pull it up on the intranet for when I have time to read it.” He pressed the paper into Mayne's folded hands and turned on the screen of his sleeve to find the poem. He stopped.

“Global Disarmament of 2079,” Mayne said, reading the page still open on Lester's sleeve. “So that's what you've been thinking about.” He brushed his folder to the side of the desk and revealed a poem underneath: There Will Come Soft Rains. “Funny coincidence.”

Lester motioned open the door and stumbled out of the cluttered office.