"Am I going to die?"
"You're pretty sick, son."
I laughed a little with my curdled belly. Too soon to answer, You're telling me. Nineteen-twelve. That was what I meant.
"But—will I die?"
His tender passion became tenderer still. "Would you be afraid to, son?"
"No."
"Do you believe in God?"
"Of course."
"Want to live—still?"
Still, he had said. He could see—what I could only feel.