There are certain moments within everyone’s life, moments of great peril, that seem to last for an eternity, where time seems to freeze up on you. This is because, to my best approximation, our brains know that this is important information and would rather see us die of something ridiculously gruesome than ever ever ever forget it. This was one of those moments in Marie Joyce’s life. She watched as Jones puffed away on their cigarette. With time frozen in her brain like this, the blue smoke wafted up into the air in slow motion. She took a long, deep breath that, by her account, lasted about three years.

“How long have you known?” She finally asked them.

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“Since the day of the flood.” Jones said, with slow motion blue smoke hovering out of their lips. “That morning I got my diagnosis and that afternoon I saw everybody bloated and floating on the factory floor.”

“That’s terrible.” Marie said.

“I know.” Jones put out the cigarette and leaned in, their fingers in between one another. “It’s ironic too. I missed the execution but I still got a death sentence.”

“That’s terrible.” Marie said again. It was the only thing that she was able to bring herself to say. “That’s terrible.”