When words put their hands on my face, force me to look at them, inject their intensity into my eyes, my veins, and leave me exhausted when I look away, I know that the reading experience was essential, important, real. That happened to me repeatedly as I read this book. I ended loving the characters, or wanting to love the characters despite their unlovability. Surely I will lie awake and imagine the could-of-beens in their lives, even though Kennedy's characters accepted their fates, willingly or not.