Cbip.0023
The Last CBIP.0023 Handshake
Then the light went out.
She placed her hand on the warm glass. “It’s okay, Dad. You can let go.”
“I am dying, sweetheart. This just lets me watch you grow old.”
Across from her, in the transfer cradle, lay her father. His hands, spotted and thin, rested on the armrests. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved silently—perhaps reciting a poem, perhaps just breathing.
“You know the risk,” she said. “The transfer might feel like dying.”