In Tokyo, they measure death in hours. Nako’s began with stomach pains at a wedding reception—her own. The cake hadn’t been cut yet, but something else was already dividing inside her, multiplying with the precision of a cell gone wrong. Three hundred and twelve days from “I do” to “Time of death:” The numbers feel important somehow. Like if I could solve them, arrange them differently, I could find the equation that explains how a body becomes a battlefield so quickly. Twenty-n...
