While all published authors are inordinately fortunate, even fewer are fortunate enough to be represented by Ross Harris. Authors are infamous for describing the strains they put on their agents—frantic late-night emails about errant characters, sprawling lousy drafts, strained social calls that thinly mask a plea for news (any news!) about the fate of their novel—and all I can add to this litany is: mea culpa. This novel would, very literally, not exist without Ross and as such he gets my first and loudest acknowledgment. Thanks also, to Stuart and to everyone else at SKLA. I can’t believe it’s finally worked out.
Deep thanks are also due, in no order of preference, to Carter, James, Tom, Megan and Ed, for reading this book in manuscript form, providing dozens of notes and hours of encouragement.
My parents, Rose and David, deserve an award for their unflagging support. I can’t think of another American family who would actively urge their son not to go back to school and complete his degree, but I’m glad they did. Sorry for all the bad words.
I will always owe Peter Joseph more than I can give: he saw this story and decided it deserved to be told. Peter and John Glynn guided me through three rigorous rounds of edits that made the book immeasurably stronger. Also, my thanks to Natalie Hallak, to our intrepid copyeditors and designers, and to everyone else at HarperCollins. Any errors that remain after all of their hard work are mine and mine alone.
On the West Coast, I have to thank Brooke Ehrlich for her enthusiasm and her savvy. Thanks to her I’ve met Drew, Andy and Kyle, all of whom have changed my life for the better.
Helen and Winnie deserve special love for putting up with my neuroses when I was at the end of drafts or shirking my responsibilities to tease out a nice sentence on a square of scratch paper. I’ll always remember our time fondly.
Carson and Brian were kind enough to offer me a stunning view of Lake Saratoga and the chance to escape the city while under the pressure of editorial deadlines. I still owe them a bottle of rosé.
I must thank the many footballers in Central Texas who were kind enough to answer my questions about the sport and their private lives. I withhold their names here because I remember very well the way guilt works by association in my old neck of the woods, and I would hate for any of these young men to be tainted for helping me a write a novel that is, to put it mildly, concerned about the world in which they live.
To the survivors whose stories informed characters like Deputy Grissom and the Old Boys, I’m sorry, and thank you. I hope things have gotten better. You know who you are.
And finally, to all the young people living anywhere there isn’t room for you, whose stories have yet to be heard, whose lives will never be normal: I see you. You’re loved.