My sisters were in that van.

It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.

Someday I'll tell you all of it," I say. "I'd like that," he says. "No," I say. "I promise you won't.

You have a way of looking at things. You make it seem as though everything's going to be okay. I can't imagine a more dangerous thing to have than hope like yours.

Tell me about yourself." "Myself?" He looks confused. "Yes," I say, patting the mattress. "You know all there is to know," he says, sitting beside me. "Not true," I say. "Where were you born? What's your favourite season? Anything." "Here. Florida," he says. "I remember a woman in a red dress with curly brown hair. Maybe she was my mother, I'm not sure. And summer. What about you?" The last part is said with a smile. He smiles so infrequently that I consider each one a trophy.

It's best to let her go," he says. No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.

Because even if the lie is beautiful, the truth is what you face in the end.