I caught up on my correspondence, I rearranged my bookshelves, I even cleaned the kitchen—anything to keep the inevitable from happening. And then one day a friend asked, as friends will, “How is the new book coming?” and I blurted out, “I’m writing a book in which a child dies, and I can’t let her die. I guess,” I said, “I can’t face going through Lisa’s death again.” “Katherine,” she said, looking me in the eye, for she is a true friend, “I don’t think it’s Lisa’s death you can’t face. I think it’s yours.”
