He shrugged. “Maybe you are dying, in a way. Jen, the job. Maybe it wasn’t just a whiskey-induced accident that you wrote your own obituary.” “You’re saying I’m dying?” “In a way. We all are.” “You should come out with a line of sad greeting cards.” “We die and are reborn all the time. We just ignore it. About three hundred thirty billion cells are replaced every day. You’re different today than you were yesterday.”
