New York. California.

She’d never been farther than a trip to Florida with her grandparents when she was five. It rained a lot, and they never entered the gates of Disney World because her grandfather said it was too expensive. Instead, they camped in a state park, and Madeline climbed on a rusty jungle gym with some kids from Georgia whose parents watched them all play while pounding beers.

Madeline wanted to see more. To do more.

True to form, Hoffman ran out of steam. “So about the beginning of this thesis.”

“Thanks for reading it.”

He waved his hand over the table, a king dispensing favors. “Anything to help. I know Dr. Nye can be . . . distracted sometimes. He’s had a difficult time. And our department chair, Dr. White, asked me to assist in any way I can, so since I was already the second reader, I thought maybe I could take a more active role in the project. Let’s not tell Dr. Nye, since it isn’t really protocol for me to step in this way. We don’t want to step on any toes. But I may have a different set of literary insights than he would.”

“Any insights at all would be appreciated. You’re right. Dr. Nye has been . . . kind of distracted.”

Hoffman pulled the pages—handwritten—out of his bag and tossed them onto the table. He pointed to them. “I see this story building to some act of violence. You’re not there yet, but you seem to be moving in that direction. I guess I’m wondering why you wanted to tell a story like this in the first place.”

Madeline cleared her throat. Her coffee was almost finished. She was down to the bottom of the paper cup, and the liquid was lukewarm. “It’s not autobiographical. But it is loosely based on something that’s happening to a friend of mine.” She went for her eyebrow and couldn’t stop herself. She gave it a good tug, felt one of the little hairs pull free with that satisfying pop. If Hoffman knew Zach and Sophia, might he recognize them in the book? “She’s having trouble with her husband. Or at least I think she is. See, I don’t really know, but I’m imagining where it could go. Some of it’s real, and some of it isn’t.”

“That’s my point,” Hoffman said. “I think I can tell when you’re on sure footing with your details. And then other times, it feels like you’re grasping. For example, all the details about Lilly’s family life and childhood. Her father dying, her mother having a succession of men. The protagonist searching for a father figure elsewhere. Her grandfather. Her soccer coach. That all feels very real.” He drank his own coffee, scratched his nose. “I suppose those details are . . . autobiographical from your friend’s life.”