My Neighbor I Know So Well (AmeCan)

Does This Still Count as a Mistake? (America)

30 October, 1899

        Dear Diary, unfortunately, I was discovered four days ago strolling along the streets of a nearby city from the inn I resigned in temporarily. The inn was small, but suitable to rest for one night. I was walking along the streets in search of an available stagecoach to take me where I needed to go, or at least close to where I needed to go. I heard whispers and fingers pointing in my direction from several people. They were speaking very low so I couldn't comprehend what they were saying. When I looked back up, I was confronted by a man holding a photo and wore a coat with coattails. His coattails gave away his background as not being a commoner, but a man of wealth. Turns out he was holding a photo of me and looking me over. He asked me what in the world was I doing there, and I replied saying I was just visiting the country for the weekend. A normal getaway from the minor troubles of my country. He didn't believe my words and escorted me in a stagecoach. Since he didn't answer any of my questions throughout the whole ride, I gave up and the little compartment was filled with silence. By the time we stepped off, I looked ahead to see that we were at a manor, the size of two ordinary plantations. The interior, I admit, appealed to my eyes more attractive than the interior of my house. I knew where we were, who else would own such an enormous manor? Moving on, I took my seat in a room with three chairs and a desk, I'm guessing it was the caretaker's office? Oh how wrong was I, it was the prime minister's office. Two figures entered the room: the caretaker and prime minister. Straightaway my body was overwhelmed with fear. What would they do to me? What would they say? How would my boss lay out my consequences? The prime minister was first to talk. He asked me what business I intended to show up in Canada. I had to be absolute and not sugar-coat my confession, I know no one likes that, at least no one I know likes that. I told him I wanted to speak with Matthew, find out where he was and why he wasn't present at the time I returned to the United States. He said that Matthew had been sent off to South Africa as volunteers to help British, Australian, and New Zealandish troops. He was placed at the back lines to ensure his safety in the long-run. My jaw dropped. "Does he have at least any experience drawing out a gun? Has he had experience shooting something, shooting someone? Does he know what it feels like to be shot? Bones exposed? Why have I not received a letter about this?" He said a letter was sent, but he didn't know if it was successfully delivered. I told him it wasn't, and I was wondering why I hadn't heard from him. Caretaker apologized for the whole situation and promised that Matthew would send letters to me like I did for him. How did he know I sent letters? Is he really that hovering over whatever Matthew does? I asked the prime minister if I was in any trouble. He said no; he understood why I did what I did and forgave me. He did have to send me back to the United States. There's no way I could stay in Canada the whole time until Matthew comes home. When all settled, I met with the caretaker on the front porch. He told me that an arrangement was made for me and Matthew to meet in New York. He would sail on a different ship heading to the state. I shook his hand in gratitude and thanked him a million. I don't know if he saw the sheer excitement in my eyes. For now, I'm thriving on the fact that my dear friend will be okay for the most part. Don't worry, diary, I'll give my boss a paper recollecting our conversation. Hopefully I'll hear only half of his lecture.

Your keeper, Alfred