From the New York Times bestselling author of the novel Triangles —a gorgeous, “raw and riveting tale of love and forgiveness” ( Publishers Weekly ) about a woman torn between her love for a dedicated Marine and her resentment of the war that is tearing their lives apart. The last thing Ashley ever expected was to end up a military wife. But Cole doesn’t match her stereotype of the aggressive Marine. He’s pas­sionate and romantic, and their relationship evolves into a deeply felt, sexually charged love affair that survives four deployments. Cole desper­ately wants Ashley to marry him, but when she meets another man, a college professor, she begins to see what life might be like outside the shadow of war. Written in Ellen Hopkins’s stunning poetic verse style, Collateral cap­tures the hearts of the soldiers on the battlefield and the minds of their friends, family, and lovers who also sacrifice their lives and happiness for their country at war. Is the collateral damage worth the fight? “Uplifting and heartbreaking... featuring characters grappling with the serious issues of our time.” ― Publishers Weekly “Searing. . . . Hopkins examines the highs and lows of the mercurial nature of a relationship with someone whose first loyalty is to his (or her) country.” ― The Denver Post “Hopkins examines the difficulties often overlooked in military marriages, such as limited communication, infidelity, worry over injury, loneliness, and the physical and mental issues of returning veterans. . . . The story will appeal to many readers.” ― Library Journal “Hopkins brings much passion to her work.” ― Kirkus Reviews Ellen Hopkins is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Triangles , as well as nine young adult novels, including the Crank trilogy and Tilt , which are beloved by teens and adults alike. She lives in Carson City, Nevada, with her family. Visit her online at EllenHopkins.com. UGLY IN BLACK As Earth returns to chaos, her women brace to mourn, excavate their buried faith, tap reservoirs of grace, to mourn. Soldiers steady M-16s, search stillborn eyes for welcome or signs of commonality. Ferreting no trace, they mourn. Few are safe, where passions swell like gangrened limbs you cannot amputate. Sever one, another takes its place, and you mourn. Freefall into martyrdom, a bronze-skinned youth slips into the crowd, pulls the pin. He and destiny embrace, together mourn. Grenades are colorblind. A woman falls, spilling ebony hair beside the blond in camouflage. Death’s doorman gives chase. All mourn. Even hell capitulates to sudden downpour. Cloudburst sweeps across the hardpan, cracks its bloodstained carapace. Hear God mourn. Up through scattered motes, a daughter reaches for an album. She climbs into a rocking chair to search for Daddy’s face, and mourn. Downstairs, a widow splinters on the bed, drops her head into his silhouette, etched in linen on the pillowcase, to mourn. Alone, the world is ugly in black. When final night descends to blanket memory, drops its shroud of tattered lace, who will mourn? Present POETS WRITE ELOQUENTLY About war, creating vivid images of severed limbs, crusting body fluids and restless final sleep, using nothing more than a few well-crafted words. Easy enough to jab philosophically from the comfort of a warm winter hearth or an air-conditioned summer. But what can a sequestered writer know of frontline realities—blistering marches under relentless sand-choked skies, where you’d better drink your weight in water every day or die from dehydration? Flipside—teeth- cracking nights, too frigid for action, bored out of your mind as you try to stay warm in front of a makeshift fire. How can any distant observer know of traversing rock-rutted trails, hyperaware that your camouflage comes with a built-in bull’s-eye; or of sleeping with one ear listening for incoming peril; or of the way fear clogs your pores every time you climb inside a Humvee and head out for a drive? You can see these things in movies. But you can’t understand the way they gnaw your heart and corrode your mind, unless you’ve been a soldier outside the wire in a country where no one native is really your friend, and anyone might be your enemy. You don’t know till you’re ducking bullets. The only person you dare rely on is the buddy who looks a lot like you—too young for this, leaking bravado, and wearing the same uniform. Even people who love soldiers— people like me—can only know these things tangentially, and not so much because of what our beloveds tell us as what they’ll never be able to. OF COURSE, IF YOU ASK Me about falling in love with a guy in the military, I’d tell you to about-face and double-time toward a decent, sensible civilian. Someone with a fat bank account and solid future, built on dreams entirely his own. I’d advise you to detour widely around any man who prefers fatigues to a well-worn pair of jean