rewrite the end.
And then it’s almost 2011. Now I’m sixteen years old, and making it through, still dreaming Danny alive in exactly the same way. He’s not the embodied Danny; he’s mostly made up, with a new identity and a new name, like the girl who never was. But his real name doesn’t matter. He was sixteen at the time, he was my friend and my partner, and then he died. And yet right here, in the spell of memory and imagination, I can still see him, as if I’m gazing into some other world, a place where there are no such things as rivalry, bullets, and fear. Me, I’m young and doing the best that I can do…still. I’ll never die. I’m skimming across the surface of my own history, moving fast, doing cuts and spins, and when I fall into the dark and come down a few years later, I realize it is me trying to save my own life with a story.