“This is it?” I wail, unable to bear it. “This is what’s left?” 36 “Everything is left,” he insists. “You’ll see.” “How can you say that?” I ask. “When we know how it’s going to end?” My older self reaches to steady me, and I look at him at last. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he says. “For you, it doesn’t have to.”
