“Tom, if this year’s gone like this, what will next year be, better or worse?” “Don’t ask me.” Tom blew a tune on a dandelion stem. “I didn’t make the world.” He thought about it. “Though some days I feel like I did.” He spat happily. “I got a hunch,” said Douglas. “What?” “Next year’s going to be even bigger, days will be brighter, nights longer and darker, more people dying, more babies born, and me in the middle of it all.” “You and two zillion other people, Doug, remember.”
