i open up the pages to look at the writing , the writing of my ma 's own hand , written in the days after i was born and before she was killed in the spackle war or by the mayor himself or by the suicide lie he 's been trying to say is true and i boil a little at him again , boil at the anthill of letters spilling cross the pages , dense and skittery , already changing my mind about having him do this and- my dearest son , i read , the words suddenly there on the page , clear as anything , not a month old and already life is readying its challenges for you !