Aberle was also in agreement, but also quite drunk that night. “Widower…? Widow…? Widowex? What’s the gender-neutral form of–…” He murmured to himself in German for a few seconds before proudly declaring, “WINDEX. Wait. No, wait–” I collapsed into laughter. Aberle’s a gem.

Fine. Fine. Obviously, this entity– this fucker was targeting me and those around me. Probably because it thought I wasn’t supposed to exist. And god damn it, maybe it was right. Maybe my even outliving Neb was too much gall for the universe to handle. But Jay Gatsby was never supposed to outlive James Gatz, either. And there he was, using his ‘perfect imagination’ to carve himself into where he never belonged.