There's a handmade dictionary on the bed where Thad died. It's his latest, written after his legs stopped working. There are sixty-seven words for death scribbled inside, Thad's handwriting, his hand-carved pen and crushed-berry ink, the indents conforming to Will's fingerprints as he traces every word.
He likes to believe Thad had a soul. He likes to believe it's in the forest now, in Nepenthe's healing earth, or in the stars, where Thad never got to explore other planets, had to settle for creating his own. He'd like to believe in an afterlife.
But all he sees is the grave.