"There're --?" Jo squinted at him. "I'm not even sure I want to know." It's a lie. She always does.

"I mean, it's not like there aren't dozens and dozens of unauthorized autobiographies and near to the friends or families texts and interviews, media pieces, artworks, especially at the school, but the last thing he'd ever want would have been more." The man in her books never struck her as someone who specifically seemed to have wanted anything he ended up with. It had seemed even more so when it was whisperings among old contemporaries of his.

She eyed him, not so much distracting or deviating, as asking on top of it. "You done killing yourself over there now?"