[The lump that is Anne is still for a while, so at least she’s stopped weeping for now, though she does let out a few gnarly sounding coughs. Then she speaks again, wriggling her face out from the layers— it’s hard to breathe under there when she’s coughing like that, and the doors locked anyway.

I want that to be true. I’m not ready to die. Not again. Not yet. Two lives—- I deserve to be loved at least once, before I die again, don’t I?