 If I Die Tonight, by A. L. Galen, narrated by Sarah Borges. Prologue. From the Facebook page of Jacqueline Merrick Reid. October 24 at 2.45 a.m. By the time you read this, I'll be dead. This isn't Jackie. It's her son Wade. She doesn't know where I am. She doesn't even know I can get on her Facebook page, so don't ask her. This isn't her fault. I am not her fault. I'm writing to tell my mom and Connor that I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone. I wish I could tell you the truth of what happened, but it's not my truth to tell. And anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters, what I want you both to know, is that I love you. Don't feel sad. Everything you did was the right thing to do. I'm sorry for those things I said to you, Connor. I didn't mean any of it. Funny. I'm thinking about you right now, Connor. I used to follow me around all the time when you were a little kid. I used to copy everything I did. You probably don't remember this, but when you were about four, I taught you the middle finger. And you did it to that mean babysitter we had. What was her name, mom? Loretta? Lerlene? Anyway, whatever her name was had some crap reality show on the TV. Real housewives of the seventh circle of hell. She wouldn't let us watch the Mets game and called us nasty little brats and told us we had no business talking at all because children should be seen and not heard. Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. So Connor gets off the couch, walks up to Lerlene and flips her the bird. It was so little he needed two hands to do it. He used the left hand to hold down the fingers on the right. Do you remember this, mom? Because I'm pretty sure she ratted us out without explaining the context of forcing us to watch her crap TV show. You are so mad. We didn't get dessert for two weeks. I remember thinking how unfair the whole thing was and how quick grown-ups were to believe the lies of other grown-ups. Especially when it came to their own kids. But looking back on it now, all I can remember is how red Loretta's face got and how hard we both laughed, even with her shrieking at us. It was one of those moments. My English teacher, Mrs. Crawford, called them memory gifts. You keep them in a special place in your brain and kind of wrap them up to preserve them and tie them with a ribbon. And when you need them, when you're feeling really bad, you can unwrap them and remember all the details and feel that moment all over again.