At the newsstand, I stopped for some reading material. I picked up a novel called Hallelujah, written by some guy who, according to the inside flap, had died in a drowning accident before the book’s publication. I opened the book to a random page and read the first sentence my eyes landed on: “I couldn’t give in to them because I knew that if I did, I’d be giving away the part of me that belonged to her.”
