Books are a uniquely portable magic.

Excerpt: It took five hundred and eighty-seven words to upend the last twenty-eight years of my life. They weren't dramatic. They sat quietly on the page, waiting for me to understand what they meant. Waiting to undo everything I thought I knew about who I am and where I belong.  

     The dirt from his grave is still on my clothes seventy-two hours later. Cher threatens to call 911. She stands in the doorway, watching me like I’m about to collapse if she looks away for even a second. Maybe she’s right. I haven’t changed my clothes since the funeral. I haven’t slept much either. Every time I close my eyes, I see them lowering my dad’s casket into the grave, hear the soft thud of earth against wood, feel something inside me giving way.