BRIAN JACQUES, 1939–2011, “You’re gonna carry that weight.”
SERGEI PROKOFIEV, whose duck, even after being eaten, could be heard.
MARY CLIMIE, for the letter she mailed me seventeen years ago.
KRISTEN and KARA, AMANDA and ALEXANDRA, who are even better than brothers.
MOTHER, FATHER, for letting me run wild through the woods, for giving me knives and shovels, for not caring if I came home hands sticky with sap and hair caked with mud.
OTHER FATHER, OTHER MOTHER, for letting me run wild through the woods.
BRIAN HODGSON, for running wild with me through the woods.
CHRISTIAN PIERS, who discovered the skeletons under the dunes.
TRACY BARRETT, the original mastermind.
TONY EARLEY, who can teach something to even an alien from the crop circles.
LORRAINE LOPEZ, for all the hours and hours and hours she gave this.
NANCY REISMAN, one of the planet’s preeminent readers.
HEATHER SELLERS, who swore this could happen.
SARAH BURNES, for battling the dragons.
BETHANY STROUT, for giving this misfit book a home.
DAVID FOSTER WALLACE, for everything.
SUFJAN STEVENS, for “Holland” especially.
CHARLES SCHULZ, whose children spoke numbers and notes.
And thanks, as always, to JACK RIDL, and his brother the star.