But really, I’m watching her. She’s uncomfortable just sitting there, doing nothing. She crosses and uncrosses her legs. Sips too fast, then sets it down as if to slow herself down. Rakes her hand through her hair, then realizes she’s fidgeting, and tries to still herself again.

I want to tell her she’s trying too hard to relax. It won’t come right away, the ability to slow down. If you try to force it, you’ll just stress yourself out even worse. For a go-go-go type of person, like me, like Lisa was, it takes some practice.

I think, too, she’s just too sad to be able to enjoy anything.

And that, now, that I get.

I’ll bide my time. I don’t really understand anything, but I feel like this is what Adrian intended. What this even is, I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy.

I put a receipt into the book to mark my place, take it inside, and set it on the little shelf next to the bed. On top of the shelf is Adrian’s book.

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.