I’ve always said that my books are my children. Today during one of my long walks through Brooklyn I chanced upon my fifth child, a copy of my novel Chinese Takeout left on an utility stand near a street corner. I like to think that maybe someone loved it so much they left it for another (as opposed to just being thrown out). It wasn’t defaced. The pages weren’t torn or marked. Yet I still feared that I failed this poor boy in some way.