I should probably start with the blood.I it bleeds it leads and all that, right? It’s all anyone everwants to know about, anyway. What did it look like? What did iteel like? Why was it all over my hands? And the mystery blood,all those unaccounted-or antibodies, those aceless corkscrews oDNA—who let them behind?But beginning with that night, with the blood, means thatChris will never be anything more than a corpse, bleeding out allover his mother’s travertine marble, Adriane nothing but a dead-eyed head case, rocking and moaning, her clothes soaked in his blood, her ace paper white with that slash o red razored into hercheek. I I started there, Max would be nothing but a void. Nullspace; vacuum and wind.Maybe that part would be right.But not the rest o it. Because that wasn’t the beginning, anymore than it was the end. It was—note the brilliant deductive rea-soning at work here—the middle. The center o gravity aroundwhich we all spiraled, but none o us could see. The center cannothold, Max liked to say, back when things were new and quotingpoetry seemed a suitably ironic way to declare our love. Thingsall apart.But things don’t just all apart. People break them.