Henry and I were penpals while he was in New York, but for the last few months I couldn’t find where I’d stashed his letters. I found this one today as I was unpacking. His letters always had the uncanny ability of finding their way into my mailbox when I most needed them. They now slip out of books into my lap when I am missing him the most. Henry is all over this novel, as he is all over everything else I will ever do. The only part of this book he never read was the dedication. I wish I could’ve shown it to him, but I wanted it to be a surprise. This book is the last piece of my writing that he ever read and it is out tomorrow. Hen, talk back soon.