never tell me about—take her. When I pressed her about it
once, all she said was: Death isn’t just a person dressed all
in black, darl. It’s a place we’re each of us heading to.
I’ve never understood that. But the words have always
stuck with me: that she thinks death is a country with its
own topography, horizon, stars and moons and planets,
just like our own.
In a flurry of bile and nerves, I dial.
‘My name is Avicenna Crowe,’ I tell the woman who
answers, her voice crisp and emotionless. ‘I’d like to
report a missing person please.’
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