The Ocean at the End of the Lane

I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.

I knew enough about adults to know that if I did tell them what had happened, I would not be believed. Adults rarely seemed to believe me when I told the truth anyway. Why would they believe me about something so unlikely?

I liked myths. They weren't adult stories and they weren't children's stories. They were better than that. They just were.

I went away in my head, into a book. That was where I went whenever real life was too hard or too inflexible.