But sometimes I would knock on the wall and Jonathan would come, panicked,
with his sad eyes. He wishes he knew me before this all happened.
I shake my head.
You wouldn't have liked me, I tell him. I used to have a vulture on my shoulder.
He frowns, disturbed. A vulture?
A small voice that whispers alongside. A small voice winding about one's
head. Vicious comments.
And it's not there anymore?
No, it's gone away. The fever killed it.
Was it an actual vulture?
It was white.
- 0 1 +