You’ve dreamt about it since you were a kid: a secret, a funeral, a spreading cough, and then it starts—the end. The whole, terrible end. For years, you’ve kept one eye on the shadows swilling above the door, waiting for the arrival of the God of Doom. What to do now that he’s here, sipping coffee in our kitchen? We sneak glares from the sink, mutter apologies when we bump in the hall. He’s an awful guest, of course—tracks blood everywhere, cries when we feed him, screams if we don’t. So we keep the freezer stocked with dumplings, black fruit, beans to last a month. We take turns hefting his
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