NINE:

NINE: Hello, Ten.

NINE: I don’t actually know why I’m writing these letters. It’s not like I’ve ever gotten a response or anything.

NINE: I don’t blame you, though. You’re probably getting tossed around from foster home to foster home just as often as I do, so the letters must simply not be reaching you in the first place.

NINE: I don’t even know why I keep calling you Ten. Nobody here calls me Nine anymore.

NINE: It’s silly, isn’t it? How it happened. The other kids were calling us Nine and Ten because we were new, and it was easier to identify us by the numbers on our sports jacket instead of our actual names. Because, let’s face it, they knew that we’re probably going to get transferred somewhere else in a couple of weeks, like so many before us, so there was no point in learning what we’re really called.

NINE: We stuck with it, though, didn’t we?

NINE: I heard back in the 19th century, they used to do that too. Assign numbers to children, that is.

NINE: I mean, why even bother with a proper name, right? Chances are, the kid is going to die from the workload or poor living conditions anyway.

NINE: I wonder if you would have survived in a 19th century workhouse.

NINE: I obviously wouldn't. Duh.

NINE: I mean, I don’t even know if I’m going to survive another month here. The docs aren’t telling me anything.

NINE: Why are they doing that? Just because I’m a kid doesn’t mean I’m dumb.

NINE: I’m not really afraid of death.

NINE: Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking forward to the experience, either. But I know it’s out there. Always has been. Hiding just around the corner.

NINE: As cynical as it sounds, you get used to death eventually if you see it happen often enough.

NINE: Remember little Oppy?

NINE: Man, she was the best.

NINE: I still think about her all the time.

NINE: I think about you all the time, too.

NINE: I miss you.

NINE: Please respond.