you have just gone. my favorite memory is this whole book because it is you. thank you for recording your life. it was supposed to be longer. i guess you should know that before you passed, at sunrise, you asked to be moved to the window so you could see your side of the mountain. you said, “so i can see home.”
i love you,
Cooper
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Oh, man. This book means so much to me. Whether they know it or not, many at Alloy—Joelle Hobeika, Josh Bank, Sara Shandler—have seen me grow up. Five years ago I walked into their old offices fresh from sleeping on a couch in Brooklyn, wearing a T-shirt with pit stains. I had no idea what I was doing. I’ve got to admit: for all the flailing melancholy I bring to their incredible stories, I am always pleasantly surprised when they keep me around. Designers—wow, three for three. Stephanie Abrams, for answering all of my panicked, broke emails. Romy Golan, for your fine-tooth comb. And the standing ovation goes to my editor, Annie Stone. Annie, thank you for allowing me to stretch your story, for letting Sammie be as weird as she needed to be. On the sea of writing, your creativity and sharpness and patience were anchors and lighthouses and the storm, all in one. (You would probably cut that sentence.)
Pam Garfinkel, what a pleasure to work with you twice in a row! And how strange to gain so much insight from someone I’ve never met. You packed the foundation of this story, and you never let me get away with anything. That’s invaluable. Thank you.
Leslie Shumate, thank you for running with me in the final stretch. And to all at Little, Brown—Farrin Jacobs, Kristina Aven—Poppy has gained a dedicated fan for life.
To the fine folks who reside in the very real, very green Upper Valley, thank you for letting me wander through and romanticize. Thanks, Charlie—yeah, bud.
Mandy, Emma—you, too, plus everything. For being there at the best and worst. Minnesota, my sweet, unexpected home. Anthony, Hannah, Ian, Luke, Patrick, Ross, Sally—I’d lasso the moon for you, you know that. Sometimes I wish we could all live in connected caves and gather berries for food and stay up all night telling stories and jokes.
To anyone who has had to suffer through a terminal disease like Niemann-Pick (or anyone who is related to someone who has), thank you for the liberty to live in your shoes for a few hundred pages. Forgive me for inconsistencies and exaggerations. If the way I told Sammie’s story doesn’t feel right, write to me. Or better yet, write it the way you would like to see it.
Grandma Sally and Grandpa Buck, Grandma Hazel and Grandpa Bill, and Great-Aunt Margaret, for telling the stories that matter. Lastly and never leastly, Mom, Dad, Wyatt, Dylan, Puppy, and Lucy. Thanks for letting me go off to build my little worlds, and for being there when I return.