You know I'm getting a little tired of waiting for you to catch on.

That is death - shifting from "is" to "was.

Yes," she says, her eyes bright with tears. "My dear child, you've done so well.

Drink this," she says. "What is it?" my throat feels swollen. I swallow hard. "What's going to happen?" "Can't tell you that. Just trust me." I press air from my lungs and tip the contents of the vial into my mouth. My eyes close.

Don’t worry about me handling the pain," I say. "I’ve had a lot of practice.

Nothing else is all right.” His whisper tickles my cheek. “But we are.

I catch myself thinking 'Thank God For This' out of habit, and then I understand what he's so concerned about. What if my parents' God, their whole belief system, is just something concocted by a bunch of scientists to keep us under control? And not just their beliefs about God and whatever else is out there, about right and wrong, about selfishness?