“Yes, and when you wake up after being shot, there’s a pastor sitting in a chair beside your bed who’s convinced you’re a gift from the heavens above. And he and his wife adopt you, and furnish you with a loving home and all the necessary documentation to cover your past. I mean, really A.J., that’s a movie-of-the-week special right there.”
“They died,” he says flatly.
“As everyone does eventually,” I respond, my voice very soft. “And through no fault of your own. Wouldn’t they have had that space heater on in their room, even if you weren’t living with them?”
He’s silent.
“And Sayori would have died, too. Only not with the help of someone she loved. And not with the same peace of mind.”
He says harshly, “And Pavel? Maksim? Matushka? In what fantasy world am I excused for them? How ca
