* * *
•••
The child lies on the shore. But for his smallness, he looks no different from the rest of the dead whose bodies litter the beach. A man, masked and gloved to protect himself from disease, approaches. He kicks at the boy’s leg and, eliciting no response, kneels down beside him. He places his hands gently into and under the sand so as to lift the boy’s head. He observes the child, the lightness of him, the bell-shaped locket he wears. Somewhere farther up the road police officers argue with soldiers over jurisdiction and photographers clamor for position and tourists gawk at the shipwrecked dead, but these people and their concerns belong to a different world, a different ordering of the world. A fantasy.
With great and delicate care, the masked man lifts the necklace from around the little boy’s neck.
Acknowledgments
Anna, Anne, Sonny. First and always.
At Knopf Doubleday, I have had the astounding good fortune to work with some of the best minds in publishing. For their work on this novel and the previous one, I am grateful to Gabrielle Brooks, Madeleine Denman, Amy Edelman, Nicholas Latimer, Robert Shapiro, Suzanne Smith and Angie Venezia.
Over the last few years, several of my favorite writers, whose work has changed my life, have shown me more kindness than I deserve. Chief among them are Garth Greenwell and Emily St. John Mandel. My gratitude as well to Peter Heller, David Means and Elliot Ackerman for their generosity.
I am thankful to Literary Arts—one of the finest writing organizations in the world—for being a source of community and support.
This, as everything, is for my mother. And for Theresa, Dahlia and Idris—my world.
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