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“What do you want?” asks the stranger, still studying the sky, and Henry cringes, on instinct, but there’s no anger in the man’s voice. If anything, it’s curious, questing. His head drifts back down, and he looks at Henry with the greenest eyes he’s ever seen. So bright they glitter in the dark. “Right now, in this moment,” says the stranger. “What do you want?” “To be happy,” answers Henry. “Ah,” says the stranger, smoke sliding between his lips, “no one can give you that.”
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