We don’t pay attention to him.

“What are you waiting for, God?” he screams to the sky, opening his arms.

Rory and I exchange looks.

“I’m telling Ryner to throw him into rehab as soon as this is done,” she says.

“Good idea.”

A NOTE FROM DEAD KATHLEEN

Look, I’m going to admit it right off the bat. I am the villain in this story.

I lied.

I deceived.

I manipulated the situation to my own advantage.

That’s what you want to hear, and that’s what I’m telling you, but I am not one-dimensional, and I’m definitely not as bad as Glen.

I loved Mal from the get-go. I’m talking since age two, not since age fourteen, when all the other girls in Tolka finally noticed that the weird Doherty kid was not so weird anymore, and also happened to be exciting and cool and knew how to ride dirt bikes and pierce his own nose and ears.

I’ve loved him since he let me play the doctor and dutifully played the patient, asking me humorously to touch him places I had no business even knowing about at that age.

Since he snuck snacks into Sunday Mass because we were perpetually bored and shared them with me.

I loved him when he practiced the guitar and I practiced sewing in my room, and we were both terrible.

I don’t regret anything that happened. I did all of it because I thought I could make him happy.

Just remember that as you read on, okay?

Remember that Rory is here for a reason now.

And that before I hate my half-sister, I love my still-on-Earth husband.

So, so much.

In fact, love him to death.

A NOTE FROM THE COW

For the record, the farmers who work the shed I live in turn on the soft rock radio station all the time, which is something I am trying really hard not to hold against them. At any rate, that means I’m familiar with Ashton Richards’ work, and although I do not consider myself an expert of any sort, I can tell he is no bloody good.

Not good as an artist, not good as a singer, and probably not as a human, judging by the first and last hour we spent together on Earth.

Ashton Richards contributes less than I do to the human effort. At least I produce milk, which gives you calcium, which promotes bone strength. It is depressingly evident that some humans, such as him, clearly decline to use the superior intelligence they were blessed with.

He can walk on two feet. Learn a foreign language. Play Sudoku.

Yet he barely knows his animals.

So, no, I wouldn’t let him ride me.

As a horse, a car, a woman, or a spaceship.

Definitely not as a cow.

Just, no.

Chapter 10

Present

Mal