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Rather than saving more young people, we are stretching out old age. Fries, now a professor emeritus of medicine at Stanford, this theory postulates that as we extend our life spans into the 80s and 90s, we will be living healthier lives—more time before we have disabilities, and fewer disabilities overall. The claim is that with longer life, an ever smaller proportion of our lives will be spent in a state of decline.

Compression of morbidity is a quintessentially American idea. It tells us exactly what we want to believe: that we will live longer lives and then abruptly die with hardly any aches, pains, or physical deterioration—the morbidity traditionally associated with growing old. It promises a kind of fountain of youth until the ever-receding time of death. It is this dream—or fantasy—that drives the American immortal and has fueled interest and investment in regenerative medicine and replacement organs.

But as life has gotten longer, has it gotten healthier? Is 70 the new 50? The author at his desk at the University of Pennsylvania. It is true that compared with their counterparts 50 years ago, seniors today are less disabled and more mobile.

But over recent decades, increases in longevity seem to have been accompanied by increases in disability—not decreases. For instance, using data from the National Health Interview Survey, Eileen Crimmins, a researcher at the University of Southern California, and a colleague assessed physical functioning in adults, analyzing whether people could walk a quarter of a mile; climb 10 stairs; stand or sit for two hours; and stand up, bend, or kneel without using special equipment.

The results show that as people age, there is a progressive erosion of physical functioning. More important, Crimmins found that between and , the loss of functional mobility in the elderly increased. In , about 28 percent of American men 80 and older had a functional limitation; by , that figure was nearly 42 percent. And for women the result was even worse: more than half of women 80 and older had a functional limitation. The same is true for functioning loss, an increase in expected years unable to function.

The researchers included not just physical but also mental disabilities such as depression and dementia. My father illustrates the situation well. About a decade ago, just shy of his 77th birthday, he began having pain in his abdomen. Like every good doctor, he kept denying that it was anything important. But after three weeks with no improvement, he was persuaded to see his physician.

He had in fact had a heart attack, which led to a cardiac catheterization and ultimately a bypass. Since then, he has not been the same. Once the prototype of a hyperactive Emanuel, suddenly his walking, his talking, his humor got slower.

Today he can swim, read the newspaper, needle his kids on the phone, and still live with my mother in their own house. But everything seems sluggish. That is a fact. I no longer make rounds at the hospital or teach.

Will You Die for Me?

And, as my father demonstrates, the contemporary dying process has been elongated. Take the example of stroke. The good news is that we have made major strides in reducing mortality from strokes. Between and , the number of deaths from stroke declined by more than 20 percent. The bad news is that many of the roughly 6. Worse, it is projected that over the next 15 years there will be a 50 percent increase in the number of Americans suffering from stroke-induced disabilities.

Unfortunately, the same phenomenon is repeated with many other diseases. So American immortals may live longer than their parents, but they are likely to be more incapacitated. The situation becomes of even greater concern when we confront the most dreadful of all possibilities: living with dementia and other acquired mental disabilities.

And the prospect of that changing in the next few decades is not good. Instead of predicting a cure in the foreseeable future, many are warning of a tsunami of dementia—a nearly percent increase in the number of older Americans with dementia by The average age at which Nobel Prize—winning physicists make their discovery is Half of people 80 and older with functional limitations. That still leaves many, many elderly people who have escaped physical and mental disability.

If we are among the lucky ones, then why stop at 75? Why not live as long as possible? Age-associated declines in mental-processing speed, working and long-term memory, and problem-solving are well established. Conversely, distractibility increases. We cannot focus and stay with a project as well as we could when we were young.

As we move slower with age, we also think slower. It is not just mental slowing. We literally lose our creativity. About a decade ago, I began working with a prominent health economist who was about to turn Our collaboration was incredibly productive. We published numerous papers that influenced the evolving debates around health-care reform. My colleague is brilliant and continues to be a major contributor, and he celebrated his 90th birthday this year.

But he is an outlier—a very rare individual. American immortals operate on the assumption that they will be precisely such outliers. But the fact is that by 75, creativity, originality, and productivity are pretty much gone for the vast, vast majority of us.

And wrong. Dean Keith Simonton, at the University of California at Davis, a luminary among researchers on age and creativity, synthesized numerous studies to demonstrate a typical age-creativity curve: creativity rises rapidly as a career commences, peaks about 20 years into the career, at about age 40 or 45, and then enters a slow, age-related decline.

There are some, but not huge, variations among disciplines. Currently, the average age at which Nobel Prize—winning physicists make their discovery—not get the prize—is Theoretical chemists and physicists make their major contribution slightly earlier than empirical researchers do. Similarly, poets tend to peak earlier than novelists do.

All the composers studied were male. This age-creativity relationship is a statistical association, the product of averages; individuals vary from this trajectory.

Indeed, everyone in a creative profession thinks they will be, like my collaborator, in the long tail of the curve. There are late bloomers.

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As my friends who enumerate them do, we hold on to them for hope. It is true, people can continue to be productive past 75—to write and publish, to draw, carve, and sculpt, to compose. But there is no getting around the data.

By definition, few of us can be exceptions. Lehman called them in his Age and Achievement, produce is novel rather than reiterative and repetitive of previous ideas. The age-creativity curve—especially the decline—endures across cultures and throughout history, suggesting some deep underlying biological determinism probably related to brain plasticity. We can only speculate about the biology.

The connections between neurons are subject to an intense process of natural selection. The neural connections that are most heavily used are reinforced and retained, while those that are rarely, if ever, used atrophy and disappear over time.

Although brain plasticity persists throughout life, we do not get totally rewired.

As we age, we forge a very extensive network of connections established through a lifetime of experiences, thoughts, feelings, actions, and memories. We are subject to who we have been. It is much more difficult for older people to learn new languages. All of those mental puzzles are an effort to slow the erosion of the neural connections we have. Once you squeeze the creativity out of the neural networks established over your initial career, they are not likely to develop strong new brain connections to generate innovative ideas—except maybe in those Old Thinkers like my outlier colleague, who happen to be in the minority endowed with superior plasticity.

Maybe mental functions—processing, memory, problem-solving—slow at Maybe creating something novel is very rare after that age. Unable to contain ourselves, we burst out laughing. We should not be laughing. This is serious! Georgia giggled, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

I know, I sniffed, composing myself. Down by the river the girl and her savior had vanished, and the fighting sounded farther away. See, its over anyway, Georgia said. Its too late to do anything even if we wanted to. We turned toward the crosswalk just as two figures sprinted up the stairs behind us. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw them approaching at full-speed and grabbed Georgias arm to pull her out of the way. They ran past, missing us by mere inchestwo huge men dressed in dark clothes with caps pulled down low 21 around their faces.

A glint of metal flashed from beneath one of their long dusters. Leaping into a car, they started the engine with a roar. But before they drove off, they pulled up beside my sister and me and slowed to a snails pace. I could feel them staring at us through the darkened windows. Whatcha looking at? Georgia yelled, and they peeled off down the road. We stood there for a moment, stunned. The crosswalk light turned green, and Georgia hooked her arm through mine as we stepped out into the street.

Weird night, she said finally, breaking our silence. Understatement of the year, I replied. Should we tell Mamie and Papy about it? Georgia laughed. And spoil Papys Paris is safe delusion? Theyd never let us out of the house again.

There had been nothing about what we had seen on the news. But Georgia and I couldnt let it go that easily. We discussed it more than a few times, although we got no closer to understanding what had taken place. Although I continued to do all my reading at the Caf SainteLucie, I hadnt seen the mysterious group of gorgeous guys again.

After a couple of weeks, I knew all the waiters as well as the owners, and many of the regular clients became familiar faces: Little old ladies with their teacup Yorkshire terriers, which they carried around in their handbags and fed from their plates. Businessmen 23 with expensive-looking suits talking endlessly on cell phones and ogling every pretty girl who walked by.

Couples of all ages holding hands under the tables. One Saturday afternoon I was squeezed into my regular table in the terraces far left corner, reading To Kill a Mockingbird. Although this was my third time through it, some passages still brought tears to my eyes. As one was doing now. I used my dig-fingernails-into-palm trick, which, if it hurt enough, could keep me from crying in public.

Unfortunately, today it wasnt working. I could tell my eyes were getting red and glassy. This is all I needto cry in front of my regular caf crowd just as Im getting to know them, I thought, peering up to see if anyone had noticed me. And there he was. Sitting a few tables away, watching me as intensely as he had the first time.

It was the boy with the black hair. The scene from the river, with him leaping off a bridge to save someones life, felt like it had been nothing but a surreal dream. Here he was, in broad daylight, drinking coffee with one of his friends. I almost said it out loud. Why did I have to get all teary about a book while this too-cute-to-be-true French guy was staring at me from a mere ten feet away?

I snapped my book closed and laid some money on the table. But just as I started toward the exit, the elderly women at the table next to mine stood and began fiddling with their massive pile of shopping bags.

I fidgeted impatiently until finally one of them turned around. So sorry, dear, but well be another minute. And she practically shoved me toward where the guys were sitting.

I had hardly gotten a step beyond their table when I heard a low voice coming from behind me. Arent you forgetting something? I turned to see the boy standing inches away from me. He was even more handsome than he had seemed from afar, though his looks were sharpened by that same flinty coldness I had noticed the first time I had seen him. I ignored the sudden jolt in my chest. Your bag, he said, holding my book bag out toward me, balancing the strap on two fingers.

Um, I said, thrown off by his proximity. Then, seeing his wry expression, I pulled myself together. He thinks Im a total idiot for leaving my bag behind.

How kind of you, I said stiffly, reaching for the bag, as I tried to salvage any remaining scrap of confidence left in me.

He pulled his arm back, leaving me grasping air. Why be angry at me? Its not like I swiped it. No, of course not, I huffed, waiting. He didnt let go. How about an exchange? Ill give you the bag if you tell me your name. Its contents spilled in a heap across the sidewalk. I shook my head in disbelief. Thanks a lot! As gracefully as I could, I got down on my knees and began cramming my lipstick, mascara, wallet, phone, and what seemed like a million pens and tiny scraps of paper into my bag.

I looked back up to see him inspecting my book. To Kill a Mockingbird. En anglais! And then, in slightly accented but perfect English, he said, Great bookhave you ever seen the film My mouth fell open. I managed to utter. He raised his other hand and showed me my drivers license, which featured an exceptionally bad head shot. By this point my humiliation was so great that I couldnt even look him in the eyes, although I felt his gaze burning into me.

Listen, he said, leaning closer. Im really sorry. I didnt mean to make you drop your bag. Stop flaunting your impeccable language skills, Vincent, help the girl to her feet, and let her take her leave, came another voice in French. I turned to see my tormentors friendthe guy with the curly hairholding out my hairbrush, with an expression of mild amusement creasing his razor-stubbled face.

Ignoring the hand Vincent was extending to help me up, I staggered to my feet and brushed myself off. Here you go, he said, handing me my book. Thanks, I replied curtly, trying not to run as I made the quickest possible exit out of the caf and onto the street. As I waited for the crosswalk light to change, I made the mistake of glancing back.

Both of the boys were staring my way. Vincents friend said something to him and shook his head. I cant even imagine what theyre saying about me, I thought, and groaned. Turning as red as the stoplight, I crossed the street without looking their way again. For the next few days I saw Vincents face everywhere. In the corner grocery store, coming up the steps from the Mtro, sitting at every caf terrace I passed.

Of course, when I got a better look at each of these guys, it was never actually him. Much to my annoyance, I couldnt stop thinking about him, and even more annoyingly, my feelings were equally divided between selfprotective cautiousness and unabashed crush.

To be honest, I wasnt ungrateful for the diversion. For once I had something else to think about besides fatal car crashes and what the hell I was going to do for the rest of my life. Id thought I had it pretty much figured out before the accident, but now my future stretched before me like a mile-long question mark. It struck me that my fixation on this mystery guy might just be my minds way of giving me a breather from my confusion and grief. And I finally decided, if that were the case, I didnt mind.

I was ensconced in what I now considered my private corner table, finishing off yet another Wharton novel from the school syllabus my future English teacher was obviously a big fan , when I noticed a couple of teenagers sitting across the terrace from me. The girl had short-cropped blond hair and a shy laugh, and the natural way she kept leaning in toward the boy next to her made me think they were a couple. But upon turning my scrutiny to him, I realized how similar their features were, though his hair was golden red.

They had to be brother and sister. And once that idea popped into my mind, I knew I was right. The girl suddenly held up her hand to stop her brother from talking and began scanning the terrace, as if searching for someone. Her eyes settled on me. For a second she hesitated, and then waved urgently at me.

I pointed to myself with a questioning look. She nodded and then gestured, beckoning me to come over. Wondering what she could possibly want, I stood and slowly made my way toward their table. She rose to her feet, alarmed, and motioned for me to hurry. Just as I left my safe little nook against the wall and stepped around my table, a huge crash came from behind me, and I was knocked flat onto the ground.

I could feel my knee stinging and lifted my head to see blood on the ground beneath my face. Mon Dieu! Tears of shock and pain welled in my eyes. He ripped a towel from his waist apron and dabbed my face with it. You just have a little cut on your eyebrow. Dont worry. I looked down at my burning leg and saw that my jeans had been torn open and my knee completely skinned. As I checked myself over for injuries, it dawned on me that the terrace had gone completely silent. But instead of focusing on me, the astonished faces of the caf-goers were looking behind me.

The waiter stopped swabbing my eyebrow to glance over my shoulder, and his eyes widened in alarm. Following his gaze, I saw that my table had been demolished by a huge piece of carved masonry that had fallen from the buildings facade.

My purse was lying to one side, but my copy of House of Mirth stuck out from where it was pinned under the enormous stone, exactly where I had been sitting. If I hadnt moved, I would be dead, I thought, and my heart raced so fast that my chest hurt.

I turned back to the table where the brother and sister had been sitting. Except for a bottle of Perrier and two full glasses sitting in the middle of a handful of change, it was empty. My saviors were gone. Finally, after allowing the caf staff to use half their firstaid kit on me, I insisted that I could make it home on my own and wobbled back, my legs feeling like rubber bands.

Mamie was coming out the front door as I arrived. Oh, my dear Katya! Then, scooping up our things and leading me back into the house, she tucked me into bed and insisted on treating me like I was a quadriplegic instead of her slightly scraped-up granddaughter.

Now, Katya, are you sure youre comfortable? I can bring you more pillows if you want. Mamie, Im fine, really. Does your knee still hurt?

Die for Me by Amy Plum | Recaptains

I can put something else on it. Maybe it should be elevated.

Its just a scrape, really. Oh, my darling child. To think what could have happened. She pressed my head to her chest and petted my hair until something in me broke and I started crying. Mamie cooed and held me while I bawled.

Im just crying because Im shaky, I protested through my tears, but the truth was that she was treating me just like my mom would have. When Georgia got home, I heard Mamie telling her about my near-death experience. My door opened a minute later, and my sister raced in looking as white as a ghost. She sat silently on the edge of my bed, staring at me with wide eyes. Its okay, Georgia. Im just a little scraped up. Oh my God, Katie-Bean, if anything had happened to you You are all I have left. Remember that.

Im fine. And nothings going to happen to me. Ill keep far away from disintegrating buildings from now on. She forced a smile and reached out her hand to touch my own, but the haunted look stayed. The next day Mamie refused to let me leave the house, insisting that I relax and recover from my injuries.

I obeyed, to humor her, and spent half the evening reading in the bathtub. It wasnt until I had lost myself in the warm water and a book that my nerves got the best of me, and I sat there trembling like a leaf. I hadnt realized how scared the near miss with the crumbling building had left me until it took topping the tub up several times with scalding hot water to calm me down. Ultimately, I 31 fell asleep with little plumes of steam rising up from the water around me. When I passed the caf the next day, it was closed, and the sidewalk outside the building was roped off with yellow plastic police tape.

Workers in electric blue overalls were erecting scaffolding for builders to come stabilize the facade. I would have to find another location for my al fresco reading. I felt a pang of disappointment as I realized that this was the only place that I had a chance of seeing my recent obsession.

Who knew how long it would be before I ran into Vincent again? My mother began taking me to museums when I was a tiny child. When we went to Paris, she and Mamie and I would set off in the morning for a little taste of beauty, as my mother called it. Georgia, who was bored by the time we reached the first painting, usually opted to stay behind with my father and grandfather, who sat in cafs and chatted with friends, business associates, and whoever else happened to wander by.

But together, Mamie, Mom, and I combed the museums and galleries of Paris. So it was no great shock when Georgia gave me a vague excuse of previous plans when I asked her to come museum trolling with me a few days later.

Georgia, youve been complaining that I never do anything with you. This is a valid invite! Yeah, about as valid as me inviting you to a monster truck rally. Ask again if you plan on doing something actually interesting. To show her goodwill, she gave my arm a friendly squeeze before shutting her bedroom door in my face. Weaving my way through its tiny medieval streets, I finally arrived at my destination: the palacelike building housing the Picasso Museum.

Besides the alternate universe offered by a book, the quiet space of a museum was my favorite place to go. My mom said I was an escapist at heart Its true that Ive always been able to yank myself out of this world and plunge myself into another.

And I felt ready for a calming session of art-hypnosis.

As I walked through the gigantic doors of the Muse Picasso into its sterile white rooms, I felt my heart rate slow. I let the warmth and peace of the place cover me like a soft blanket. And as was my habit, I walked until I found the first painting that really grabbed my attention, and sat down on a bench to face it. I let the colors absorb into my skin. The compositions convoluted, twisted shapes reminded me of how I felt inside, and my breathing slowed as I began zoning out.

The other paintings in the room, the guard standing near the door, the fresh-paint smell in the air around me, even the passing tourists, faded into a gray background surrounding this one square of color and light.

I dont know how long I sat there before my mind slowly emerged from its self-imposed trance, and I heard low voices coming from behind me. Come over here. Just look at the colors. Long pause. What colors? Its just as I told you. He goes from the bright, bold 33 palette of something like Les Demoiselles dAvignon to this gray and brown monotone jigsaw puzzle in a mere four years.

What a show-off! Pablo always had to be the best at everything he put his hand to, and as I was saying to Gaspard the other day, what really ticks me off is I turned, curious to see the origin of this fountain of knowledge, and froze. Standing just fifteen feet away from me was Vincents curly-haired friend. Now that I saw him straight on, I was struck by how attractive he was.

There was something rugged about himunkempt, scruffy hair, bristly razor stubble, and large rough hands that gesticulated passionately toward the painting. By the condition of his clothes, which were smudged with paint, I guessed he might be an artist. That came to me in a split second.

Because after that, all I could see was the person standing with him. The raven-haired boy. The boy who had taken up permanent residence in the dark corners of my mind since the first moment I saw him.

Why do you have to fall for the most improbable, inaccessible boy in Paris? He was too beautifuland too aloofto ever really notice me. I tore my gaze away, leaned forward, and rested my forehead in my hands. It didnt do any good. Vincents image was burned indelibly into my mind. I realized that whatever it was about him that made him seem a bit cold, almost dangerous, actually heightened my interest instead of scaring me off.

What was wrong with me? I had never gone for bad boys beforethat was Georgias specialty! My 34 stomach tightened as I wondered if I had the courage to go up and talk to him.

But I didnt have the chance to put myself to the test. When I raised my head, they were gone. I walked quickly to the entrance of the next room and peered in. It was empty. And then I just about jumped out of my skin as a low voice from behind me said, Hi, Kate. Vincent loomed over me, his face a good six inches above mine. My hand flew to my chest in alarm. Thanks for the heart attack! I gasped. So is this a habit of yours, leaving your bag behind in order to strike up a conversation?

He grinned and nodded at the bench where I had been sitting. Lying beneath it was my book bag. Wouldnt it be easier to just walk up to a guy and say hello? The slight trace of mockery in his voice evaporated my nervousness. It was replaced by a fiery indignation that surprised us both. Hello, I growled, my throat tight with fury. Marching over to the bench, I picked up my bag and stalked out of the room.

I didnt mean it like that. What I meant I came to a stop and stared at him, waiting. Im sorry, he said, exhaling deeply. Ive never been known for my sparkling conversation.

Then why even make the effort? I challenged. YoureI dont knowamusing. I pronounced each syllable slowly and shot him 35 my Youre a complete weirdo look. My clenched fists rose automatically to rest on my hips. So, Vincent, did you come over with the express purpose of offending me, or is there something else you want?

Vincent put his palm to his forehead. Listen, Im sorry. Im an idiot. Can we Start what over from scratch? I asked doubtfully. He hesitated for a second and then held out his hand. Im Vincent. I felt my eyes narrow as I weighed his sincerity.

I gripped his hand in mine, shaking it a bit rougher than I meant to. Im Kate. Nice to meet you, Kate, Vincent said, bemused. There was a four-second silence, during which I continued to glare at him. Do you come here often? I couldnt help but burst out laughing. He smiled, obviously relieved. Um, yes, actually. Ive kind of got a thing for museums, not just for Picasso. A thing?

Vincents English was so good that it was easy to forget it wasnt his first language. It means I like museums. A lot, I explained. Got it. You like museums but not Picasso in particular. I smiled at him, mentally giving him points for trying so hard. Whered your friend go?

He took off. Jules doesnt really like to meet new people. American, I responded. And the girl Ive seen you around the neighborhood with would be your Sister, I said slowly. Have you been spying on me? Two cute girls move to the areawhat am I supposed to do? A wave of delight rippled through my body at his words.

So he thought I was cute. But he also thought Georgia was cute, I reminded myself. The wave disappeared. Hey, the museum caf has an espresso machine. Want to get some coffee while you tell me what other things youve got a thing for? He touched me on the arm.

The wave was officially back. We sat at a tiny table in front of steaming cappuccinos. So, now that Ive revealed my name and nationality to a complete stranger, what else do you want to know? I asked, stirring the foam into my coffee.

Oh, I dont know I laughed. Um, shoe size ten, Breakfast at Tiffanys, absolutely no athletic ability whatsoever, and way too many embarrassing moments to list before the museum closes.

Thats it? Thats all I get? I felt my defensiveness melting away at this surprisingly charming and decidedly not-dangerous side of him. With Vincents encouragement I told him about my old life in Brooklyn, with 37 Georgia and my parents.

Of our summers in Paris, of my friends back home, with whom I had, by now, lost all contact. Of my boundless love for art, and my despair at discovering I possessed absolutely no talent for creating it.

He prodded me for more information, and I filled in the blanks for him on bands, food, film, books, and everything else under the sun. And unlike most boys my age I had known back home, he seemed genuinely interested in every detail. What I didnt tell him was that my parents were dead.

I referred to them in the present tense and said that my sister and I had moved in with our grandparents to study in France. It wasnt a total lie. But I didnt feel like telling him the whole truth.

I didnt want his pity. I wanted to seem like just any other normal girl who hadnt spent the last seven months isolating herself in an inner world of grief. His rapid-fire questions made it impossible for me to ask him anything in return. So when we finally left I reproached him for it.

Okay, now I feel completely exposedyou know pretty much everything about me and I know nothing about you. Aha, that is part of my nefarious plan. He smiled, as the museum guard locked the doors behind us. How else could I expect you to say yes to meeting up again if I laid everything out on the table the first time we talked?

This isnt the first time we talked, I corrected him, trying to coolly ignore the fact that he seemed to be asking me out. Okay, the first time we talked without my unintentionally insulting you, he revised. Vincent walked slightly hunched over with his hands in his pockets. For the first time I sensed in him a tiny hint of vulnerability. I took advantage of it. The guy Kate saw in the cafe sitting with Charlotte introduces himself as Charles and she finds out the old man, who was also her host, is called Jean-Baptiste.

Everyone except for Jean-Baptiste explains to Kate that they are revenants, what they do, and how they live. Kate promises to not tell anyone about them. Kate agrees to date Vincent under certain conditions. Vincent explains some more about being a revenant and Kate feels insecure, worried that Vincent only likes her because he saved her life by warning Charlotte about the falling masonry in the cafe while he was volant.

Kate learns about the numa. They are at a restaurant when two men walked by, shoved Ambrose against the wall, and stabbed him.

Georgia is furious at Kate for ditching her. Kate breaks up with Vincent because his situation as a revenant reminds her too much of her dead parents. Kate accidentally bumps into Charlotte and they have a girl-to-girl talk. Kate sees Vincent with another girl and agrees to go out with Georgia to a party. Kate meets Lucien. As Kate was leaving, she sees Charles with Lucien.

Kate goes to the cafe to read and sees Jules. They talk and she learns that the woman with Vincent that she saw earlier was just a friend. Kate sees Vincent again. He tells her about his history and their options, and Kate agrees to give him another chance if he promises to try not to die. Kate sees Vincent and Gaspard training and decides to try it out for herself. When Vincent was leaving, he tells Kate that Lucien is the leader of the Paris numa.

Kate reveals that Charles was hanging out with Lucien. Kate tries to warn Georgia about Lucien, but Georgia refuses to listen. Charles calls and reveals that the numa has him. Kate worries about Georgia and the revenants prepare for battle, leaving Kate with Gaspard in their house.

Georgia appears with Lucien. Kate leaves the house, leaving Gaspard inside.Georgia, youve been complaining that I never do anything with you. They began making their way down the stairs. After all, evolution has inculcated in us a drive to live as long as possible. In the corner grocery store, coming up the steps from the Mtro, sitting at every caf terrace I passed. Although brain plasticity persists throughout life, we do not get totally rewired.

I thought about the long night ahead and crawled out of bed, fishing for the clothes I had worn the day before and slipping them on. To distract you. Im just a little scraped up.

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Perfect, he said, seeming pleased with himself but giving no further explanation. I can bring you more pillows if you want.