“Whoa, you’re like—” He shakes his head, speechless. “—Beautiful.” I nod. “I know.” I give him a glib smile. “It’s riveting stuff.” His head pulls back, surprised. “You don’t care about being beautiful?” I shrug. “Not really.” He looks confused. “Even though it’s gotten you…everything—?” I stare up at him in defiance. “Do you care about air, River?” His eyes pinch, curious. “Not particularly.” “Even though it keeps you alive?” He nods, sort of getting my point. “I guess I’d only care about it if I was running out of it.” “So tell me I’m beautiful when I’m sixty and the world is tired of my
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