You're far from this. This story is just another few hundred pages of your mind.

It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.

Even enemies were an inch away from friendship.

After perhaps thirty meters, just as a soldier turned around, the girl was felled. Hands were clamped upon her from behind and the boy next door brought her down. He forced her knees to the road and suffered the penalty. He collected her punches as if they were presents. Her bony hands and elbows were accepted with nothing but a few short moans. He accumulated the loud, clumsy specks of saliva and tears as if they were lovely to his face, and more important, he was able to hold her down.

Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

If you ever write a book, I can only give you one piece of advice. Don't let your parents get involved.

He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world. She was the book thief without the words. Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.