“I can’t believe you were never worried about the coaster still being there by the time you died,” Elijah laughs, shaking his head as he writes in his journal. “Like this whole plan depended on a wooden roller coaster still being there in sixty years or whatever.” I’m glad he can’t see my face. I reach for another beer bottle and open it, so I don’t have to answer. So I don’t have to tell him that the Aiden from before never planned on living that long.
