Time It Was

The Professor told me that he had consulted with the best medical doctors and surgeons in the States and Europe and they all concluded that nothing more could be done for me now.  A few of them indicated that at some time in the future a better treatment might be available, and that's what gave The Professor the idea to meet with doctor Tesla.

Doctor Tesla, it turns out, was attempting to create the world's first working time machine.  He explained to me that if the machine worked as planned I would have two options: travel to the future in the hopes that technology would be sufficiently advanced for my leg to be repaired, or travel to the past in an effort to prevent the tiger attack altogether.

I thanked the doctor as kindly as possible (I could hardly take the man seriously), but I as I turned to leave he revealed the reason for his generosity in allowing me to use his machine; I would be the first.  Suddenly I felt very sober indeed.

The Professor

In the midst of all my scurrying around for Management, I received a letter from The Professor.  I had of course informed him of my injury, and he was enormously concerned for me.  At least he expressed regret over the mauling and a surprising amount of anger at Management's treatment of me.  He also said he had found a doctor in the States who could be trusted to operate on my leg.  I felt grateful for the help and more than a little touched by his concern.

 I was also beginning to sense that his interest in me might be more than purely academic.  He signed his letter, "Yours always, William."

Management

For the next few weeks I worked under the watchful eye of Management.  This hateful entity sent me on ridiculous errands throughout the wilds of Peru, and I have never felt so useless nor so scrutinized in my entire life.  At first Management doubted my claim that I had been mauled at all.  Though I walked with a limp and was in constant pain, the fact that I lived was to them proof of my lie.  When I pulled up my skirts to show them the teeth marks, they insinuated the whole thing was somehow MY fault, as if I'd asked the tiger to attack me.

Worst of all, the surgeons in our group were unable to heal my leg.  I was stuck working for people who did not trust or appreciate me, and my body, the traitor, was failing me.  Plus, the tiger was still out there somewhere, and though I felt he had not really wanted to hurt me I was afraid he was still watching me, ready to pounce should I ever again venture back into the jungle.