Once there were three boys. Their names were Neil and Paul and Eric. This was in New Jersey some years ago.
Not one not two but all three had muscular dystrophy. Their bodies shriveled slowly. They had a brave mother and father and sister who bent every ounce of their effort and heart to take care of them, and when their sister fell in love, her boyfriend befriended the boys, and even after they died—all three boys, within a few months of each other, as they reached the end of their teenage years—the boyfriend remembered the courage and fears and wheelchairs and games and jokes and tears and exhaustion and wit and tension and the parade of quiet people from church and town and clan who helped the boys live lives of zest and grace. And finally he wrote this book, which is, as you might imagine, remarkable.