I always thought I was different.

What," I said, "is that a crime here or something? Like only buying one thing at the Gas/Gro?

You need demarcation." "Demarcation?" I asked. "It means a clear separation between two things," he told me. "A solid end before a clean beginning. No murky borders. Clarity.

I am never happy when I finish a book. I always start feeling good, and then I get to about Page 75 and start losing momentum - and I kind of pull it together at the end, but by then I think it's just all over. It's become almost a running joke among my agent and my editor - I always say that, so they don't take me seriously anymore.

But even more so, it reminded me that this was all really happening. Stanford. The end of the summer. The beginning of my real life. It was no longer just creeping up, peeking over the horizon, but instead lingering in plain sight.

Sometimes, you get things right the first time. Others, the second. But the third time, they say, is the charm.

Nah," I said. "But if it does, just tell him I said to get back on the bike." "What?" "He'll understand.