The second time he woke up, he was alone.

Katrina had been dead for four years; yet, he expected her to be there. The rough blankets still covered his feet, a sharp something still poked his head; but no Katrina.

He smiled, frowned. His head was bleeding.

"There's no way I'll live that long."

"Why not? Sad people live a long time, when they want to, seems like."

"What?"

The moon started sinking, unnoticed.

"Do you ever feel invisible?" Kip asked.

"No. I can always see myself. How could I be invisible?" The corners of her mouth danced upward. Lips met, once, twice, parted, three times.

"Do you think up these answers beforehand?"

"Do you think up these questions beforehand?"

Nervous giggle.

"You know what your last words will be?"

"I don't. And neither do you, chick."

"Yes, I do."

Pause, cue lips, once, twice, pause, nervous giggle.

"Your last words'll be, 'Am I invisible, yet?'"

Something rustled beyond the fence. A family of rabbits had bedded down peacefully for the night. They'd been found by something, and so they rustled.

"And the answer'll be, 'No.'"

He found that hard to believe, but then he smelled the grass, the breeze, the skin; felt the touch, the lips, the leaves; heard the rustling, the breathing, the soft disconnection; saw the bulb, saw the dirt, saw the spaces in between the atoms; tasted her, only her, forever her; forgot.

Kip Pilgrim never remembered what she'd said until the day he turned 106.

The moon was low in the sky, a big, white bulb; flowers would sprout from it, if it would just plant itself in the stars.

But it stayed above stars, below stars, in front of stars. It was the greatest star.

A gentle hand brushed Kip's face. Falling leaves from the tree above them glanced off his arm, one landed in her hair; picked it out, kissed her, lay back against the trunk; felt the bark against his back, felt the hand brush his face, felt the wind pull at this shirt; smelled the cut grass from beyond the neighbor's fence, smelled her skin, inches away, smelled her sweet skin, millimeters away, touching him.

Katrina stared him right in the face.

"Right in the face, Kip," she'd say whenever she wanted his attention. She already had his attention.

"You've got the saddest eyebrows I have ever seen," she said. She raised her own. "You'll live to be 106 years old. You know that?"

The saddest eyebrows met, frowned in earnest confusion.

"And you weird me out more than anyone I've ever seen," he said.

"That's a silly thing to say. Do you see me weirding you out?"

Met again. "I guess not."

Her hair brushed against his shoulder. He could smell it, carried on the breeze with the grass clippings. It mixed pleasantly. He sighed.

At one point, all the hope had drained out of his eyes.

It was like watching a bird die.

At least, Katrina felt that way.

She'd driven home from work, alone. On the way, she ran over a bird; one of those that look the same as all the others, brown, white, something, can't remember; one of those that never ranks high in the birdwatcher's book; one of those that's never thought important.

As the brakes pinched and the car slid to a stop and Katrina bolted from the car and the sky was blue; why, that bird had never been more important in his life.

There was nothing she could do. It twitched.

There was no blood. It was like a crumpled piece of newspaper. A sick, sad, crumpled piece of newspaper.

She thought about trying to unfold him, but tasted bile at the thought. A bird's bones are hollow. It would be like bending broken straws.

So she watched it die. It didn't take long. The twitching stopped, it relaxed, looked more like a dead bird, less like newspaper.

She got in the car, drove home, opened her veins, for the bird, for Kip.