Kansas smirked. “You mean to tell me, we spent five years having god screamed at us and now you don’t think he exists?” “I don’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have let us stay there so long.” “So, I guess Constantine won’t get to enjoy the flowers after all.” Kansas frowned. “I guess not. He’s dead,” I looked back toward the woods, where he most likely died. “That’s where his story ends.”
