Lieutenant Commander James Anderson walked the promenade deck, keeping watch over the many and varied people criss-crossing the area as they shopped or dined or simply caught up with friends.  As he walked, he found himself reflecting on some of the things Minh had said during their recent therapy session, and allowed himself a private smile; while he still had not shaken the hyper-vigilance, he did generally feel a bit better.  But he also knew the hyper-vigilance he felt would help, as he’d read the reports about the recent missing children.

As he walked, he came across another pair of fellow security personnel, a pair of ensigns, exchanging nods with them before he continued on his own patrol.  Everything looked quiet, at least for now, Anderson noted with satisfaction.  That silence lasted only a moment longer, though, before the sounds of heated argument brought him to an upscale clothier’s shop; there he found the proprietor, a Deltan man, trying to placate what looked like a parent and teenaged child who were yelling at him over a dress for a school dance.  The arrival of a security officer did cool tensions somewhat, and he was able to determine that the tailor had been commissioned to make an outfit for the teenager to wear but that the parent wasn’t happy with it and was demanding both that the outfit be fixed for free and a refund of the initial purchase.  The matter was quickly resolved, though, when Anderson convinced the parent that their child’s happiness was more important than the parent’s fashion sense – the teenager, it turned out, actually loved the outfit.

With that dispute settled amiably, Anderson called in that he was going on lunch break.  He found a nearby cafe, in sight of the Memorial Wall, and took a seat by the window, ordering a small lunch.  As he ate, he pulled out his PADD, to satisfy a matter of personal curiosity; looking up his drinking buddy from shore leave, he was pleased to see that Angelus had been not only properly cleared of all charges, but had been given command of USS Fox.  He composed a quick note of congratulations and sent it to the starbase’s communications office, to be sent with the next batch of messages to go to whichever sector in which Fox was operating.

Try as he might, though, his eyes kept coming back to the Memorial Wall.  After settling his bill for the lunch, he crossed to the installation, staying back some so as to not interfere with others’ paying of their respects.  A thought nagged at him, though, and eventually he gave in; finding a blank patch of wall out of the way, he left a small note there, bearing the names of his fallen team from Norfan.  He took a moment of silence, his eyes closed, then straightened and went on about his patrol; even that simple act of memory left his mind a little lighter than it had been, and the rest of his patrol passed both uneventfully and more easily than it had been.