Then, in April of 2009, she met Emory Evans. He had a silly name and a crooked smile and a ukulele he’d play, barefoot and cross-legged, in his friends’ front yards. That was how they first met: Emory was strumming a Say Anything song at a birthday party and caught Adelaide’s eye, singing the words “I’d walk through hell for you” straight into her goddamned soul. It was funny—ironic, almost—because he was hell. He was fire and brimstone and pitchforks, a collection of demons in the shape of a redheaded, gangly teenager—demons that would chase her for so much of her life. But all that mattered,
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