Chris.
These days, it seemed he was haunted by his past. First the nightmare last evening about his marriage, now this woman shouting his wife’s name. Teresa. Beautiful, lovely, dead Teresa. He had somehow coped with it all since, but even now the old, familiar, unproductive and completely overwhelming wrath about her senseless death shook him to his roots and nothing helped but immediate action. In sheer frustration, he sprang up, gave the office chair a heavy kick and looked as it started swirling in uneven circles."Poor stool," said a gentle voice from behind him. He turned around and looked into Wilma’s soft, kind, harmless, friendly and sympathetic pale blue eyes. There was an air of benevolence around her, of quiet understanding. Here, he felt suddenly, was someone he could tell everything, without embarrassment. And he started telling her the tale of his life, the death of his family, where he came from, what their last mission was. And Wilma listened.