The waiting room is a collage of almosts: almost asleep, almost calm, almost able to explain.

Sometimes she’ll circle whatever town we’re in with a wine bottle between her honey-brown knees, passing the bottle to me now and then, tussle my curls and kiss my hand.

Selfishly, I hope the novel and literature are around for as long as people are. It will obviously change shapes and perhaps not even be recognizable two hundred years from now, but for me, literature has given me life. I can’t think of anything that’s given me such solace and hope and beauty.

This is why she ran away when a pregnant woman crossed her path. “I didn’t want to be near the hands that left marks on everything they touched,” writes Stambo.

As if any of them would give a damn about him, some washed-up vet from the Korean War, one of the wars they don’t really teach about in school, because the jury’s still out on whether we won.

We watch as they don’t even glance back at the dock sinking under the weight of all the people who love them too. As the ferry pulls away, I break into shoulder-curling sobs.