Julian laughed, a dry, rattling sound. “You made that up just now.”

“Take his last word,” she whispered. “It’s ‘K.’”

They were quiet for a while. The IV pump sang its slow, metronomic elegy. Outside, a nurse’s shoes squeaked on the linoleum. Somewhere a cart rattled with lunch trays—beige food for beige afternoons.

“And what did you tell me my time was worth?” he asked.

“The one where the poor live in seconds and the rich hoard centuries. Yes.”

“You’re staring again,” he said, not opening his eyes.

“Of course I did. But that doesn’t make it untrue.”