The old man looked, if anything, even worse than he had before. Paler and even less substantial, as if dying were a fading away process where all the colour and substance leached out of you, a little at a time, until nothing was left, not even a grin.

As Kim approached his couch, his father's hand shot out and grabbed that of his son. Kim looked down at the hand. It was so light it might have been made of paper, the skin wrinkled and mottled with liver spots. It had bent into the ...