I mean is this my freaking arm or a dartboard? 3. No condescending voice.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” I asked, cloying. “I’m going to stick you with a needle now. There might be a little ouchie.
Is my wittle fuffywump sickywicky?” he answered. And then after a second,
Most of them are good, actually. I just want the hell out of this place.
This place as in the hospital?” “That, too,” he said. His mouth tightened. I could see the pain.
Honestly, I think a hell of a lot more about Monica than my eye. Is that crazy? That’s crazy.”
“It’s a little crazy,” I allowed. “But I believe in true love, you know?
I don’t believe that everybody gets to keep their eyes or not get sick or whatever,
but everybody should have true love, and it should last at least as long as your life does.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I just wish the whole thing hadn’t happened sometimes. The whole cancer thing.”
His speech was slowing down. The medicine working. “I’m sorry,” I said.
Gus was here earlier. He was here when I woke up. Took off school. He...”
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