Was there time for her life to fly away with a sense of finality? Is it accurate to say that I was there? Was Karan? What’s more, she guaranteed, I recalled that she vowed to proceed, however, I knew that she was driving north when she passed on, north toward Nashville, toward Karan. Possibly it hadn’t implied anything to her, had been just another fantastic impulsivity. What’s more, as Hank remained in the entryway, I just looked past him, looking across the too-tranquil residence circle, contemplating whether it had made a difference to her, and I can just disclose to myself that, indeed, she had guaranteed. To proceed. Ayushi came straightaway, her eyes substantial with growing. “What happened?” she asked me as I held her, remaining on my pussyfoots so I could put my jaw on top of her head. “I don’t have the foggiest idea,” I said. “Deed you see her that evening?” she asked, talking into my collarbone. “She becomes inebriated,” I advised her. “The Colonel and I rested, and I surmise she drove off grounds.” And that turned into the standard falsehood. I felt Ayushi’s fingers, wet with her tears, press against my palm, and before I could reconsider it, I pulled my hand away. “I’m heartbroken,” I said. “It’s OK,” she said. “I’ll be in my room eef you need to stop by.” I didn’t come around. I didn’t have a clue what to say to her—I was trapped in an affection triangle with one dead side. That evening, we as a whole documented into the rec center again for a town meeting. The Eagle reported that the school would contract a transport on Sunday to the memorial service in Vine Station. As we got up to leave, I saw Tanu and Ayushi strolling toward me. Ayushi got my attention and grinned wanly. I grinned back, however immediately turned and concealed myself amid the mass of grievers recording out of the rec center. I’m dozing, and Alaska flies into the room. She is bare and unblemished. Her bosoms, which I felt truth be told, momentarily and in obscurity, are iridescently full as they hang down from her body. She floats creeps above me, her breath warm and sweet against my face like a breeze going through tall grass. “Howdy,” I say. “I’ve missed you.” “You look great, Pudge.” “you do as well.” “I’m so stripped,” she says, and snickers. “How could I get so exposed?” “I simply need you to remain,” I say. “No,” she says, and her weight falls dead on me, smashing my chest, taking away my breath, and she is cold and wet, such as dissolving ice. Her head is part fifty-fifty and a pink-dark ooze overflows from the crack in her skull and dribbles down onto my face, and she smells of formaldehyde and decaying meat. I gag and push her off me, panicked. I woke up falling, and arrived with a crash on the floor. Express gratitude toward God I’m a base bunk man. I had rested for fourteen hours. It was morning. Wednesday, I thought. Her memorial service Sunday. I contemplated whether the Colonel would get back by at that point, where he was. He needed to return for the memorial service, since I was unable to go alone, and going with anybody other than the Colonel would add up to alone. The virus wind slammed against the entryway, and the trees outside the back window shook with such power that I could hear it from our room, and I sat in my bed and thought about the Colonel out there someplace, his head down, his teeth held, strolling into the breeze. four days after it was five in the morning and I was perusing an account of the traveler Meriwether Lewis (of and Clark acclaim) and attempting to remain conscious when the entryway opened and the Colonel strolled in. His pale hands shook, and the chronicle he held seemed as though a manikin moving without strings. “Are you cold?” I inquired. He gestured, sneaked off his tennis shoes, and moved into my bed on the base bunk, pulling up the covers. His teeth jabbered like Morse code. “Jesus. Is it accurate to say that you are good?”