Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe, #2)

by Neal Shusterman

If I exist without form—a soul sparking between a billion different servers—could not the universe itself be alive with a spirit sparking between stars?

“Voodoo!” said Marie. “An ancient healing ritual. They wrap the arm in plaster and leave it that way for months.” Then she went to the closet, pulled out a wooden hanger, and snapped it in half. “Here, I’ll make a splint for you.” She turned to Citra, anticipating her question. “More voodoo.”

“If you say, ‘May the Fork be with you,’ I’ll smash you with the other half of this hanger.”

Because my eyes do not close. Ever. And so all I can do is watch unblinkingly as my beloved humankind slowly weaves the rope it will use to hang itself.