It’s time to read it, I think.

I open it up, and turn to chapter one, page one.

When my wife died, I died with her.

Okay, a doozy of a first line.

When my wife died, I died with her. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Or, if it was, it should have been me. I should have been driving. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. I wasn’t drunk, but she’d had less than me and it was just safer to let her drive. It was just ten minutes to home, and we had a back route we knew, no main roads, no highways.

There was a deer. She swerved and hit the brakes. We spun out on a patch of ice, and ended up wrapped sideways around a tree. Driver’s side impact. I broke some bones, cut my head open, whiplash, bruises. But her? She died. Not instantly, either. There was time for her to look at me, goodbye in her eyes, and then the life drained out of her, onto the seat belt buckle. Drip, drip, drip, crimson life pooling slowly on plastic and leather.

She died, and I died with her.

But it was the worst kind of death, for me. The kind where your body stays alive, but your heart and mind and soul go down into the grave with her.

But, this is only the prologue, so I can tell you the good news, too.

I was resurrected. It took time. There was pain—don’t ever let anyone tell you that coming back from the dead doesn’t hurt, because it does. A fucking lot.

Sorry, that was supposed to be good news. Let’s try that again: I was resurrected.

Her name is Nadia, and she brought me back to life.

This is the story of how.

I close the book around my index finger, head lolling back on the couch. Holy shit, Adrian. You’re gonna hit me over the head with a hammer, aren’t you?

I open the book again and keep reading. I hear Adrian’s voice in it. Feel him speaking to me.

“Redemption’s Song is for you, Nathan. Read it, and hear my final song.”

I hear you, buddy. Not sure what you’re trying to tell me just yet, but I hear you. I’m listening.

I’m listening.

Stars

Not what I expect, when I pull up. Or maybe it’s exactly what I expect. It’s like something out of a Thomas Kincaid painting, late afternoon sunlight golden-yellow on pine trees crusted thickly around the banks of a placid lake. Private. The only cabins on the lake are the one I pull up to, and another one next to it. My hindbrain registers the pickup truck pulled forward at angle in front of the other cabin—it’s steel gray, enormous, with a silver toolbox across the bed behind the two-door cab. A thick black brush guard protects the headlights and grille, and black running boards stretch from front tire to back. It’s a macho truck, but not so over the top as to be unusual.