A fifth-grade bully, a blossoming romance, a late-night crash
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John Paul Scotto is writing a novel about neurodivergence, sexual repression, and high-school football.
You’d donated most of your organs, so the body in your coffin was basically a scarecrow version of you. . . . Thank God they don’t do brain transplants, I thought. Anybody who’d gotten your brain would’ve woken up from surgery a total asshole. I heard you laughing at this. I could remember your laugh really well. It was a letdown that I could hear it only in my head.
I felt a flash of hope for you, even though I knew — because of the distant and resigned tone of your voice — that you were going to die soon.