Adam Strand isn’t depressed. He’s just bored.  Disaffected. So he kills himself—39 times. No matter the method, Adam can’t seem to stay dead; he awakes after each suicide alive and physically unharmed, more determined to succeed and undeterred by others’ concerns. But when his self-contained, self-absorbed path is diverted, Adam is struck by the reality that life is an ever-expanding web of impact and forged connections, and that nothing—not even death—can sever those bonds. In this hyper-edgy coming-of-age story told in stark, arresting prose, Alex Award-winning author Gregory Galloway finds hope and understanding in the blackest humor. Praise for The 39 Deaths of Adam Strand : “A riveting second novel that explores the issue of suicide with a philosophical, never sensational, approach. . . . Requires careful reading of the issues it addresses, but the effort is well worth it.” — Booklist , starred review “Fans of gritty realistic fiction such as Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak and Jay Asher’s Thirteen Reasons Why will appreciate Adam’s thoughtful, authentic adolescent voice, and the honesty and boldness with which Galloway treats the issue of suicide.” — SLJ “A compelling, sophisticated novel that explores the relationship between death and the meaning of life.” — BCCB “Galloway has written a thoughtful, darkly humorous, philosophical novel with great chapter titles that reads, in a way, like homage to some of the greatest writers of literature.” — VOYA “A moody, compelling read.”— Kirkus Reviews Gregory Galloway grew up in Southeastern Iowa, along the Mississippi River. He received an MFA from the Iowa writers’ Workshop. His first novel, As Simple As Snow , was a recipient of the Alex Award. He currently lives in Hoboken, New Jersey. He doesn’t care about bridges one way or the other. The angel of death? Some people think the angel looks peaceful, raising her arms in a gesture of acceptance and grace, while others think she looks sad, disappointed in her inability to rise off her pedestal. I think she’s a little pissed, waiting there to catch someone jumping off the bridge, her arms still empty after all this time. I would like to jump to her, but not to have her catch me. I’d like to land on her and knock her off her perch. It seems like a good goal, to hit her, to land on her, to be held by her—a morbid game, a strange version of ring toss. It never happened. The closest I ever came was hitting the pedestal. It would have counted only in horseshoes. I have killed myself thirty-nine times. Usually when I say this—and I rarely do—people misunderstand me. They think I mean I have tried thirty-nine times, that I have tried and failed. Do not misunderstand me—I have succeeded thirty-nine times; it is not me who has failed. It is something else. Other Books You May Enjoy As Simple As Snow Gregory Galloway The Fault in Our Stars John Green If I Stay Gayle Forman Jerk, California Jonathan Friesen Looking for Alaska John Green The Rules of Survival Nancy Werlin Tales of the Madman Underground John Barnes Thirteen Reasons Why Jay Asher Twisted Laurie Halse Anderson The Vast Fields of Ordinary Nick Burd Where She Went Gayle Forman Willow Julia Hoban The 39 Deaths of Adam Strand GREGORY GALLOWAY Dutton Books An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. “The best thing that eternal law ever ordained was that it allowed to us one entrance into life, but many exits.” —SENECA, LETTER TO LUCILIUS (70)   “Lo! I leave corpses wherever I go.” —HERMAN MELVILLE, P IERRE   “Men always come back. They’re so absurd.” —JEAN COCTEAU, O RPHÉE ONE TWO THREE FOUR Prologue (“and shall come forth, they that have done good”) Against the dark sky there is a darker shadow. It is motionless for a moment, quiet and still, barely perceptible on the edge of a dark cliff, standing against the dark sky, a black patch on a black background, and then it’s gone. It is falling—the camera catches it as it falls and tries to stay with it, losing it a few times, falling behind so there is only the black bluff before the figure reappears again. It is unclear what it is or where it is, but you can tell that it’s falling through the air, dropping from some height. You know it can’t be good, and maybe, even before the next part, you begin to realize that the falling object is a person—you don’t know who it is, but you know it’s someone falling and that they have jumped from something solid into nothingness. There’s nothing more than that—the image of a person falling. You don’t see the impact, you don’t even see the body as it ends its descent even though the camera is right on it—it’s too dark, too far away, too many other dark shapes around it—bushes, boulders, the dark hillside and the night swallowing up everything—but the next shot is an image of the body, the camera poised directly over him, over his broken and lifeless body. There’s more light, a harsh light thrown on the figure from behind the camera—you can see bl