“The thing about Owen,” Cassidy began, “isn’t how we’d mess with the universe or talk about subversive graffiti artists or sneak me into college classes. It’s how all that stopped when our parents forced him into medical school and it wrecked him. He’d call me, convinced his cadaver was someone he knew, an old teacher or someone. He’d break down on the phone over stuff like that, how he was trapped in that lab, expected to cut open human flesh and fill out charts before washing the blood off his clothes, and to tell people that they were dying, or their loved one was dead, or their insurance
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