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![]() ![]() She scratched at the back of her left leg, where her white knee-length socks had begun to itch from the rain outside. Her German was Berlin high, but she could have addressed me in any language of the world and still passed for respectable. ![]() She examined the heart monitor plugged into my chest, observed where I’d disconnected the alarm, felt for my pulse, and said, “I nearly missed you, Dr August.” She perched on the side of my bed, her feet dangling off it, and peered into my eyes. I wore a hospital gown designed for sterile humility she, bright-blue school uniform and a felt cap. She had straight blonde hair worn in a long pigtail down her back, I had bright white hair, or at least the remnants of the same. I was dying my usual death, slipping away in a warm morphine haze, which she interrupted like an ice cube down my spine. ![]() The second cataclysm began in my eleventh life, in 1996. ![]()
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