Jackson had never been a fan of the tattooist’s art, had even promised his daughter a thousand pounds in cash if she made it to twenty-one without feeling the need to decorate her skin with a butterfly or a dolphin or the Chinese character for happiness. Jackson himself had stuck with the one practical, lowercase message—“blood type A positive,” until now no more than a faded-blue souvenir of another life. “A positive”—a nice common kind of blood shared by roughly 35 percent of the population. Plenty of donors. And he’d needed them apparently, every precious ounce of red blood having been
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