Snippet

"Aicardi-Goutieres syndrome-6: my lucky fate. I would have died were it not for my guardian, a man known as Fasili. A great man and steward. A terrorist according to some people, a genius to others, although to me he was only ever wendim, brother. Brother.

A brother is someone who loves you no matter what, even when they're boxing your ears—isn't that so, everyone?

A brother cares for you without pretense, and even if he pretends to groan as he cooks you your eggs, you know that it's nothing but an act, a brief play to entertain you as you wait for his breakfast. “Oh, Candace,” he might say, one hand flung across his forehead in mock-exhaustion, tending the frying pan with the other, “I fear I'm going to faint with all this toil you're forcing me to complete.”

And I would laugh in terror, knowing he was joking but some small shard of me horrified that he might really collapse and viciously, swiftly leave me alone, undefended, immobile.

Even then, death was present. Isn't that the joke, too? Even in our grandest moments, even when we are laughing with loved ones all around, and the wine is being passed, and all your family's eyes are lit up with nothing but excitement and joy, even then death is there."