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She handed Oren a folded piece of paper—a series of lines and dots. Three lines, two dots, three lines, two dots.
“It’s Morse code for the number eighty-eight. It means ‘love and kisses.’”
“Being remembered had meaning, and there is something not quite right about a person’s existence being extracted from the world.”
“History,” he said. “There’s a time for everything to leave the present and become history. We play our part, and then we step the hell out of the way and let whoever comes next build on whatever artifacts we’ve left behind.”
phrase bí dílis duit féin, or “be true to yourself,” which he vowed at that moment to be, always.
They had been there before, and they were there again. They would always be there.
Birk leaned over to look and said, “If you see a lynx, it’s a sign that things may not be what they seem. Or it’s a sign that you’re a good listener.”
He told her about the fires, how much of the earth was burning. The global temperature rise surpassed even the bleakest expectations. Whole species of trees had been wiped out for good. Aside from what was lost to the fires, ash and white cedar were nearly gone from insect infestations. New diseases were popping up all the time for humans too. And he told her how quickly the animals were disappearing.
“I used to feel things,” Alma said. She pressed her palms against her temples. “I heard them and saw them, but then they were all gone, and the feeling went, too, so far away that it seemed impossible to find it again.”
a cursive tattoo running along the edge of her foot read lost and found a thousand times.
We kept looking for fragments of history because that was a necessary part of the process. We never forgot, but we always moved forward.
