I ask someone to homecoming. She says yes. I talk to my librarian about him. She hugs me while I cry. I get a 100 on my English essay. I leave school for a funeral. He was sixteen.

It hurts when I wake up in the morning. But the boy gives me the nasty pill and I feel better. He gives me treats and he doesn’t get mad when I make a mess this time. He takes me out on a walk. He smiles but he smells sad. He doesn’t yell at me when I get excited and...

I did not think much of it then, but I soon learned there would be a term for me: a survivor. It is a heavy word. It implies that more people have died than have lived. That one’s life has grown valuable at the hands of a tragedy.