"Grace wrote a book," Dexter tells me, while I'm lying sweetly in a world between sleep and awake.

"Did she?" I murmur, not fully comprehending his words in my state of mind. The early hours of the morning have started to become visible among the horizon.

"She did," Dexter confirms. "It's a general fiction sort of thing. The type where you aim for literature and you hope people will see how clever you are, but don't know for certain. And there's a girl and a boy who fall in love, but the world doesn't owe then anything so it doesn't work out, and the girl falls in love with a girl because the world is changing and the boy dies."

"And did people see how clever she is?" I ask.

"I did," he informs me. "But only when I realized it was about me."