Here was Mike Kavanagh, a warm body, chest rising and falling rhythmically, oxygenated blood coursing through his arteries, fingernails growing, facial hair still sprouting, digestive tract still sending nutrients into his bloodstream, all of his vital organs save one most definitely alive. But both Trey and I were sure that he was in fact dead, or, more to the point, that after due process we would be signing a certificate that established not just the “fact” of his death, but the precise moment of it. The inherent absurdity in such cases is that whatever had happened to Mike out on Comm Ave,
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