And then I wonder, does my brother think of me this way? We entered this world together, one after the other, beats in a pulse. But I will be first to leave it. That's what I've been promised. When we were children, did he dare to imagine an empty space beside him where I then stood giggling, blowing soap bubbles through my fingers? When I die, will he be sorry that he loved me? Sorry that we were twins? Maybe he already is.

There is a silence so great that I can hear the ice crystals cracking and falling from eyelashes of girls who will never blink again.

I think he's beginning to understand, and understanding is a horrible thing.

Suddenly the clouds seem high above us. They’re moving over us in an arch, circling the planet. They have seen abysmal oceans and charred, scorched islands. They have seen how we destroyed the world. If I could see everything, as the clouds do, would I swirl around this remaining continent, still so full of color and life and seasons, wanting to protect it? Or would I just laugh at the futility of it all, and meander onward, down the earth’s sloping atmosphere?

The seeds are tiny, unborn things, and I resent them. They'll be planted and they'll grow into exactly what they're meant to be.

Someday I'll tell you all of it," I say. "I'd like that," he says. "No," I say. "I promise you won't.

Momentum,' She repeats. 'You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have to run.