The Things a Brother Knows (24 page)

I cut Abba off with a look. “Let him finish,” I say.

“First I need to take Jack back to the hospital,” he repeats. “And then I’m thinking I might stick around there myself for a while. Maybe try and get some help with all my pieces.”

A long silence follows. Everyone else has stepped off to the side. Out here, in the dark, it’s just Mom and Abba, Dov, Boaz and me.

I want him to come back as much as anyone. That’s why I’ve walked all this way. That’s why I went on this journey to this destination and all the others in between.

But I know, we all do, that by going with Jack, by going to that hospital and entering those doors and seeking out the help he needs, with this, he’s finally beginning the task of coming home again.

“Come on,” I say, and I throw my arm around him. “I’ll walk you there.”

This is not the book I wrote: it is the book I rewrote. And rewrote. And rewrote. For this I must thank Wendy Lamb, my very patient and brilliant editor, who would, if I’d let her, strike a red pencil through the world
brilliant
, but as far as I understand these things, she cannot edit my acknowledgments. So there. I said it. She’s brilliant. And I am forever in her debt. If I wanted to repay her someday, I might become an author who needs her less, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.

I also thank Douglas Stewart, my agent and dear friend, for his continued encouragement; his excellent advice, both personal and professional; his keen reader’s eye; and his all-around fabulousness.

And more thanks:

To Seth Fishman at Sterling Lord Literistic. To Ruth Homberg, Catherine Sotzing, Megan Hunt, Kristen Rastelli, Colleen Fellingham, Barbara Perris, Stephanie Moss, Tamar Schwartz and everyone at Random House, especially Caroline Meckler, for all their hard work and help in turning this jumble of words into a book.

To my friends in San Francisco, and to the beautiful city itself, for making what was a difficult transition a wonderful adventure.

To my kids, who love to ask questions about what I’m doing on the computer all the time, and for whom I construct age-appropriate versions of whatever story I’m writing, and who are kind enough to refrain from telling me I’m boring them.

To Daniel, without whose love and support I could not write or do much of anything else.

And finally, to Markus Zusak, who is responsible in so many ways for what this book became. One of the greatest gifts to come out of my life as a writer is his friendship.