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“In less than a year, I’ll be gone.” He turns to Ryke, broken picture frames lie by his knees. My brother must feel the heat of our father’s gaze because he raises his head. “You can stop assaulting my things and celebrate,” our dad says. “Your dear old pathetic father will be dead. Hooray.” My lips part in confusion. “What are you talking about?” He’s not making sense. “That.” He points to the glass on the desk. “Has killed me. Or will kill me.”
