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of Dawn, so I found his number on its title page and texted him.
Price of Dawn review: Too many bodies. Not enough adjectives. How’s
AIA?

He replied a minute later:
As I recall, you promised to CALL when you finished the book, not text.

So I called.
“Hazel Grace,” he said upon picking up.
“So have you read it?”
“Well, I haven’t finished it. It’s six hundred fifty-one pages long and I’ve
had twenty-four hours.”
“How far are you?”
“Four fifty-three.”
“And?”
“I will withhold judgment until I finish. However, I will say that I’m feeling
a bit embarrassed to have given you The Price of Dawn.”
“Don’t be. I’m already on Requiem for Mayhem.”

---

“A sparkling addition to the series. So, okay, is the tulip guy a crook? I’m
getting a bad vibe from him.”
“No spoilers,” I said.
“If he is anything other than a total gentleman, I’m going to gouge his eyes
out.”
“So you’re into it.”
“Withholding judgment! When can I see you?”
“Certainly not until you finish An Imperial Affliction.” I enjoyed being coy.
“Then I’d better hang up and start reading.”
“You’d better,” I said, and the line clicked dead without another word.
Flirting was new to me, but I liked it.
The next morning I had Twentieth-Century American Poetry at MCC. This old
woman gave a lecture wherein she managed to talk for ninety minutes about
Sylvia Plath without ever once quoting a single word of Sylvia Plath.
When I got out of class, Mom was idling at the curb in front of the building.
“Did you just wait here the entire time?” I asked as she hurried around to
help me haul my cart and tank into the car.
“No, I picked up the dry cleaning and went to the post office.”
“And then?”
“I have a book to read,” she said.
“And I’m the one who needs to get a life.” I smiled, and she tried to smile
back, but there was something flimsy in it. After a second, I said, “Wanna go to
a movie?”
“Sure. Anything you’ve been wanting to see?”
“Let’s just do the thing where we go and see whatever starts next.” She
closed the door for me and walked around to the driver’s side. We drove over to
the Castleton theater and watched a 3-D movie about talking gerbils. It was kind
of funny, actually.
When I got out of the movie, I had four text messages from Augustus.
Tell me my copy is missing the last twenty pages or something.
Hazel Grace, tell me I have not reached the end of this book.
OH MY GOD DO THEY GET MARRIED OR NOT OH MY GOD
WHAT IS THIS

---

I guess Anna died and so it just ends? CRUEL. Call me when you can.
Hope all’s okay.
So when I got home I went out into the backyard and sat down on this rusting
latticed patio chair and called him. It was a cloudy day, typical Indiana: the kind
of weather that boxes you in. Our little backyard was dominated by my
childhood swing set, which was looking pretty waterlogged and pathetic.
Augustus picked up on the third ring. “Hazel Grace,” he said.
“So welcome to the sweet torture of reading An Imperial—” I stopped when
I heard violent sobbing on the other end of the line. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m grand,” Augustus answered. “I am, however, with Isaac, who seems to
be decompensating.” More wailing. Like the death cries of some injured animal.
Gus turned his attention to Isaac. “Dude. Dude. Does Support Group Hazel make
this better or worse? Isaac. Focus. On. Me.” After a minute, Gus said to me,
“Can you meet us at my house in, say, twenty minutes?”
“Sure,” I said, and hung up.
If you could drive in a straight line, it would only take like five minutes to get
from my house to Augustus’s house, but you can’t drive in a straight line
because Holliday Park is between us.
Even though it was a geographic inconvenience, I really liked Holliday
Park. When I was a little kid, I would wade in the White River with my dad and
there was always this great moment when he would throw me up in the air, just
toss me away from him, and I would reach out my arms as I flew and he would
reach out his arms, and then we would both see that our arms were not going to
touch and no one was going to catch me, and it would kind of scare the shit out
of both of us in the best possible way, and then I would legs-flailingly hit the
water and then come up for air uninjured and the current would bring me back to
him as I said again, Daddy, again.
I pulled into the driveway right next to an old black Toyota sedan I figured
was Isaac’s car. Carting the tank behind me, I walked up to the door. I knocked.
Gus’s dad answered.
“Just Hazel,” he said. “Nice to see you.”
“Augustus said I could come over?”
“Yeah, he and Isaac are in the basement.” At which point there was a wail
from below. “That would be Isaac,” Gus’s dad said, and shook his head slowly.
“Cindy had to go for a drive. The sound . . .” he said, drifting off. “Anyway, I
guess you’re wanted downstairs. Can I carry your, uh, tank?” he asked.
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though, Mr. Waters.”

---

“Mark,” he said.
I was kind of scared to go down there. Listening to people howl in misery is
not among my favorite pastimes. But I went.
“Hazel Grace,” Augustus said as he heard my footsteps. “Isaac, Hazel from
Support Group is coming downstairs. Hazel, a gentle reminder: Isaac is in the
midst of a psychotic episode.”
Augustus and Isaac were sitting on the floor in gaming chairs shaped like
lazy Ls, staring up at a gargantuan television. The screen was split between
Isaac’s point of view on the left, and Augustus’s on the right. They were soldiers
fighting in a bombed-out modern city. I recognized the place from The Price of
Dawn. As I approached, I saw nothing unusual: just two guys sitting in the
lightwash of a huge television pretending to kill people.
Only when I got parallel to them did I see Isaac’s face. Tears streamed
down his reddened cheeks in a continual flow, his face a taut mask of pain. He
stared at the screen, not even glancing at me, and howled, all the while pounding
away at his controller. “How are you, Hazel?” asked Augustus.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Isaac?” No response. Not even the slightest hint that he
was aware of my existence. Just the tears flowing down his face onto his black
T-shirt.
Augustus glanced away from the screen ever so briefly. “You look nice,” he
said. I was wearing this just-past-the-knees dress I’d had forever. “Girls think
they’re only allowed to wear dresses on formal occasions, but I like a woman
who says, you know, I’m going over to see a boy who is having a nervous