And now, a hopeful, dreaming man stood before me. “That’s right,” I said.

Ed pulled a forty ounce of malt liquor from a book bag and poured the whole thing into the ground. Then we thought about all the people we’d lost.

That day, I accepted that the Buchanans arrived at 4950 broken and destroyed, that while they were guilty of some terrible acts, they weren’t the originators of our misfortune. In fact, they were victims of it, just like the rest of us.

After a silence that we all needed, I announced, “My mama cooked. Y’all should come over.”

As we walked back toward our cars, I noticed more people had arrived, and Buchanans of different heights and complexions jumped out of SUVs and classic cars. You could still tell a Buchanan at first glance, I thought, acknowledging each one.

Before I hopped in my car and started the procession down State Street, I saw Stacia lingering by the open door of her truck, unsure if she ought to join. I called her name, held her gaze, told her, “Come on. You’ve got to eat.”

She smiled and nodded, accepting my invitation, like she did so many years ago.

Acknowledgments

My first words of gratitude are for God, from whom all blessings flow. You are indeed my Day One; it is your love and guidance that make any and all of this possible.

This book blossomed from a short story written many, many years ago. It was nurtured back then by professors/writers Megan Stielstra, Eric May, and Junot Díaz. A million thank yous to:

The writers who read the earliest pages of this manuscript: professors Nami Mun and Joe Meno and that incredible squad of writers in my program: Julia Fine, Jazz Wilson, Alba Machado, Jess Millman; and the three writers who continued to rock with me years and years after the program: Todd Summar, Clémence Houriez, and Brian Zimmerman.

The teachers who became mentors, then great friends: Audrey Niffenegger, who I simply cannot thank enough for all the things . . . and Don De Grazia, the thesis adviser turned lifelong coach.

The people and spaces that provided community, quiet, and peace: the Voices Writing Workshops, Ragdale Foundation, Corporation of Yaddo, John and Wendy Wilson, Laurie, Paul, and CV Peterson, and Soho House Chicago.

The folks who let me poke and prod their memory or sift through their shelves: Natalie Moore, who took my call, and Theo Williams, the cool kid from Farren who helped me relive our playground days. Much thanks to Judy Martin for her resources and the Chicago Public Library, Chicago Historical Society, Newberry Library, and the North Park University library for holding all the necessary gems in their collections.