Rolling flat onto his back, Drake shuddered. Then he inhaled deeply. He stared up at the night sky. “We’re going to win,” he said, his voice calmer, less strained. “This is nothing. Keep going. They...

Very possibly this was the night my white-knight complex, as Solange put it, would get me killed. Someone had better write a poem about it. It was only fair.

I can’t live without the sun shining down on my face, and I can’t dream without the stars kissing me goodnight.