One night, she lay on her back with her eyes fixed on the bedroom ceiling. “God,” she whispered. “I want to make a deal with you.”
I sometimes say that I grew up in the middle of nowhere, but that’s not quite true. If I really think it over, it’s more accurate to say that my little town perched on the edge of nowhere.
Those essays didn’t start out as anything ambitious, either. At their core, they’re just primal screams.
When I was in the first grade, I was probably the only girl in my class who’d never gone rabbit hunting with her father.
I remember almost nothing about him. I just remember he was there, that I cared for him, and his name.