The Gladstone, fresh copy in hand.

Caucasian woman, younger than her years, with brown hair tucked back behind her ears, dressed in low slung jeans and a brown unbreathable shirt. Her hand is adorned in notes and reminders. Her pocket bulges with folded paper, sticky notes and identification.

Bottle Rocket Hearts, Zoe Whittall (Cormorant Books)

Page 43:

Della and I are drunk at the top of Mont Royal. We have an open blue plastic thermos of red wine at our feet. It's the first day of spring and it's midnight and we've been peeling off layers of winter all day. We stand facing each other, as if to exchange vows, chests heaving from racing up the mountain to the sky. My face is hurting from smiling so much, aching at the edges of my words. She reaches out to hold my face in her hands, dirty palms form a bowl to rest my chin.

Zoe, you know your family. This is what I know now. Your parents are proud of you. They knew when you were three that you were a pragmatist, that you knew what had to be done, that you had focus. Your dad is hesitant, stands back a bit, but then grabs the pen and signs, "Dad!" For a moment your mother forgets her name, then finishes with a flourish wishing me luck on my own writing. Earlier, he panned the room for posterity while she side stepped to a song she'd never heard. It didn't matter, it had a beat and she was committed. Somewhere there's a shared nose, some features. At least, height. You're all adorable. Standing shoulder to shoulder, I'm certain you're a stunning family portrait.

Here's the thing. And I know you know it. My god, how lucky you are.