When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

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.

His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.

The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hand to touch. Vaguely, I can see you face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?

He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?

The question is what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?