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.
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