If I had lived. If I had not said anything about my birthday. If I had not gotten on a bus to New York City. If I had not knocked on Noah’s door. If I had not—but it’s foolish to think about these things now. I did not live. Because a certain man had pretended to be someone else for too long, and when he put his hands on me that last morning of my life, it was the truest he had ever been, and if I had not—not—not, it would still be nothing compared to the force of this one man’s revelation.
