Reveille

You like frilly and fuzzy stuff, although you don’t want to admit it. You’re filthy rich. You’re a spoiled brat. You scrunch up your nose—in a cute way—whenever it itches. And you’re going to die in three weeks.

That’s the most horrible thing. I only learned about it a week ago when I overheard your family doctor talking to your parents. Your dad sounded grim and your mother sounded like she would faint any minute. I wanted to barge right into the room and tell him he was making a huge mistake. But that wouldn’t change anything, would it? You knew it yourself.

Right now, I’m watching you from the window of your mansion. You’re in the garden arguing with your dad.