Things Slip Through
His first novel.
And deeply personal, based in part on an autistic boy he’d known growing up. While he’d written it, he’d truly felt alive, as though he’d been accomplishing something important, something real. He’d enjoyed writing all his novels well enough but he hadn’t felt the same since that first one, like his writing was making a difference.
He lifted a trembling hand.
And with an odd combination of loathing and need he flicked open the book’s cover, revealing the inscription: To Hank—best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass’.
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