First the colors.

A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.

An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.

Of course, I’m being rude. I’m spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don’t have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It’s the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.

I am haunted by humans.