Why would anyone in the world who’s not a basketball player need to be seven feet tall? Unless you’re Goliath, unless you’re a soldier or a killer. Then, you’d strike fear in your enemies. There’s no guarantee you’d survive the fight, though. How tall are you? Every day, I have new reason to think you’re an impossibility. I mean, what kind of a woman will want me, all seven feet of me and bleeding? You’re an impossibility because I’m an impossibility. I don’t know when, a month ago, I ran into Gemma Burns on the street. I almost knocked her down. She looked up at me, and I looked down at her. “Erik?” “Gemma.” “You’re talking.” She took a step or two back, better to see my face. “You’re huge. How tall—?” “Too tall.” “You’re unbelievable.” “How do you mean?”
