When my son, Jack, was four, I had to make a trip to Los Angeles. I asked him if he was going to miss me. 'Not so much,' Jack told me. 'You're not going to miss me?' I said. Jack shook his head, and he said, 'Love means you can never be apart.

I shot him the bird. (Get it? I shot him the—never mind.)

Good memories are like charms...Each is special. You collect them, one by one, until one day you look back and discover they make a long, colorful bracelet.

You love me this much.

Then I found it: the source of the blood, the place where he'd been shot. 'Total?' I said, and I got a slight whimper. 'You have a boo-boo on your tail.

That'd be just what I need: a rash of car thefts across America, committed by dedicated readers.

But then we have to leave, have to. It's always been that way, and it will always be that way, Jane. That's just.. how it works