Snow lowers his eyebrows. “When you look at it that way, why doesn’t everyone cross over?” “Because it’s death,” I say. “It clearly isn’t.” “They say your soul dies.” “That’s tosh,” he says. “How would you know, Snow?” “Observation.” “Observation,” I say. “You can’t observe a soul.” “You can over time,” he says. “I think I’d know—” “It’s death,” I say, “because you need to eat life to stay alive.” “That’s everyone,” he says. “That’s eating.” “It’s death,” I say, refusing to raise my voice, “because when you’re hungry, you can’t stop thinking about eating other people.” Snow sits back. His
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