Bubba's father and Bubba went down to the marina and went through the process of having a bench or table at the marina. They said it was okay. I knew nothing of this until the day after Bubba died.

We decided to do a Belgian waffle breakfast at the VFW [three] Sundays ago. Four or five volunteers got together and put it on. People flooded in. We had a wide variety of ages; people were unbelievable. The guy from the Guilford Lobster Pound knew Bubba and gave a $100 check; that got us started.

Negative.
"Mouth closed, politely.

We unify. We include."
"But humans like being individuals."
"We know," Rue said. He pushes off the ground with his foot, starting the swing into a slow sway. "We didn't understand-individuals like being lonely."
"It's not lonely." Hopefully he can't tell I'm lying.

Because in the end you are really alone, whatever you do.

Wow, hi,’ Eight says, and when he speaks it’s with his own voice.

It’s him. It’s really him.

Marina nearly doubles over with a delighted sob. She collects herself quickly, though, and grabs Eight first by the shoulders, then on the sides of his face. She pulls him in close.

‘You’re warm,’ she says in wonder. ‘You’re so warm.’

Eight laughs easily. He puts his hand over Marina’s and gently kisses the side of it.

‘You’re warm, too,’ he says.

‘I’m so sorry, Eight. I’m sorry I couldn’t heal you.’

Eight shakes his head. ‘Stop, Marina. It’s okay. You brought me here. It’s – I can’t even describe it. It’s amazing in there.’

Already, I see the energy spreading outward from Eight’s heart. It races through his body, fissures opening on his arms and legs. He doesn’t seem to be in any pain. He just smiles at Marina and looks at her like he’s trying to memorize her face.

‘Can I kiss you?’ Marina asks him.

‘I really wish you would.