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In November Mindy ceases to be real, which is great. She haunts him. She becomes each girl he drives by; she slips her name between words. She sets herself to music.

She’s looking forward to going off alone, too, until she begins to understand that time is passing between these moments. Sometimes minutes. Sometimes months.

Mindy tries to look away, to watch how the world is changing. She can’t get very far. Things accelerate like those videos of flowers growing; her glimpses get shorter: a minute, ten seconds, a second.

Sometimes she’s just a name, blinks of hearing, scattered over years.