99.
When the cotton factory at the edge of town caught fire, only 99 people died. Soot-covered survivors wandered around the ruins, wailing about the cruelty of the universe. I couldn't agree more: how could the universe be so unfair? Why not a more exact number, like 100?
Some woman handed me a flier advertising a memorial for the victims.
"Will you come to the candlelight vigil?" she asked.
"Don't you think that's a little ironic?" I said.
She furrowed her brow and moved on to the next person. But as she walked away, I decided to attend. The event sounded...promising.
Sure enough, that night at the vigil, with tiny flames held aloft, dozens of burn survivors and grieving family members gathered to bemoan the loss of their loved ones. They were there to mourn. I was there to fix the injustice of the universe.
100.
There would be exactly 100 victims.
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