"Great costume," says a voice behind me, while a hand taps me on the
shoulder. I turn to face a tall young man, perhaps in his late twenties
or early thirties, with a dusky complexion and long black hair tied in a
ponytail. He would have been classified a colored in my country. He is
barefoot and is wearing a bloody tattered shirt and knee-length pants
that are also bloody and frayed. He has red welts on his bare arms,
face, and legs, some of which have caked blood. He is inspecting me
closely from toe to head and then back to toe. I do the same to him.
"Who're you supposed to be?" he asks.
"I am Toloki the Professional Mourner," I say, mustering as much dignity
as I can and placing the necessary solemnity on the job title.
"A professional mourner? Never heard of that. From what story?"
"Ways of Dying."
"A manual on how to die?"
"No. The story of my life."
"Can't say I know it. Can you guess who I am?"
"You are from a story too?"
"Ain't we all from stories?"
"We are indeed all from stories. Every one of us. All humanity."--excerpted from book
