I look at the photograph. Across a guy’s rib cage are scrawled the words “To die would be an awfully big adventure.” I recognize it immediately. “Peter Pan.” “J. M. Barrie,” Kal corrects. “Peter Pan isn’t real.” “Isn’t he? I always thought Peter Pan was death. An angel of death who came to collect children.” Kal raises an eyebrow. “You’re darker than I thought.” “I didn’t used to be.” I am transforming. “What is death? Is it the end of photosynthesis, chemosynthesis, homeostasis?” Kal has the rhythm of a poet. “The last heartbeat? The last cell generation? The last breath of air?” “Maybe all
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