“DO YOU EVER THINK about dying?” Luka asked, his head in my lap as usual, and I opened my eyes to stare down at him. “What do you mean?” Luka laughed but it didn’t sound right. It was heavier somehow. Heavy like the humidity clinging to our skin. The rain poured against the roof of our run-down fort, seeping its way into the cotton of my t-shirt where I rested my back against the wall. “I don’t know,” he said, his fingers busy picking at the hem of his hooded jacket. “I wonder what it would be like sometimes. Wonder if it would be easier than living. Like white clouds and rainbows all the
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