You have thought about death before. It's hard not to think of, when in your arms you've strung a thousand arrows, and in your fingers you've held a thousand chances. But it was an abstract– something far away from where you are now: seventeen with a life to live. And here you are, all filled with that long life and letting it slip between your fingers, and you want it to be okay. You want it to be fine, you don't want to see your father cry– and you won't. You're gone by the time he arrives.

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