It was the summer I turned fifteen, our first summer at the lake house and – as my father insisted on informing us as we drove through the thinning traffic on our way out of the city – it was the summer that the ISON comet, long predicted to be among the brightest ever seen,
Composing himself at the stairhead before descent, he groaned as he thought about it, exhaling audibly. The he was Konstantine Orlando Glass, the it fiction writing: a match determined by chance and defined by complication, and responsible for a life of unrest and despondency. It had all begun so promisingly. His debut novel, Fragility, the
