Eleanor hadn't written him a letter. It was a postcard. GREETINGS FROM THE LAND OF 10,000 LAKES it said on the front. Park turned it over and recognized her scratchy handwriting. It filled his head with song lyrics. He sat up. He smiled. Something heavy and winged took off from his chest. Eleanor hadn't written him a letter, it was a postcard. Just three words long.

Months are different in college, especially freshman year. Too much happens. Every freshman month equals six regular months—they're like dog months.

Real life was something happening in her peripheral vision.

I'm sort of...coming off a bad relationship," "When did it end?" "Slightly before it started.

I thought you were just mean," Reagan said. "I liked that about you.

She heard the very beginning of a smile in his voice--a fetal smile--and it very nearly killed her.

Nothing before you counts," he said. "And I can't even imagine an after." She shook her head. "Don't." "What?" "Don't talk about after." "I just meant that... I want to be the last person who ever kisses you, too.... That sounds bad, like a death threat or something. What I'm trying to say is, you're it. This is it for me.