"Offshore of the town where we vacation on a barrier island in North Carolina, climate change piles five new inches of water onto the sea every ten years..."

"We teach the kids to edge around imagined rectangles, tell them: we don’t walk across graves."

"I awoke alone in the tiny house, our solar-powered houseboat at the Burlington Marina. You had slept in the hotel room we’d taken the night before to escape from our adventure on the water—the noise of the marina, the crowds on the docks, the general party atmosphere at Waterfront Park..."

"My mother and I shared July—the fireworks, the blistering heat, the ruby birthstone. But I’d learn to celebrate my birthday without her..."

"On June 4, 2015, I was sixteen and a half—almost, minus six days. I was probably working at the store that was attached to my dance studio..."

"On that day, I, a lifelong introvert who willed myself to be an extrovert for forty weeks of the year, was mostly anxious..."

I’m dreaming that I’m awake.