All the Bright Places

VIOLET
145 days till liberation
He misses the turnoff, goes right over the grassy center to the other side, and
climbs back onto the interstate, heading in the opposite direction. At some
point, we exit onto a quiet country road.
We take this for a mile or so, and Finch has turned up the music and is
singing along. He drums the beat on the steering wheel, and then we turn into
this little town that is just a couple blocks long. Finch hunches over the dash
and slows down to a crawl. “Do you see any street signs?”
“That one says ‘Church.’ ”
“Good. Brilliant.” He turns and, just a block later, pulls over to the curb and
parks. “We’re here.” He’s out of the car and at my door, opening it, offering
his hand. We’re walking toward this big old factory building that looks
abandoned. I can see something along the wall, stretching for the entire length
of it. Finch keeps going and comes to a sudden stop at the far end.
Before I die …
it says on what looks like a giant chalkboard. And there
below these giant white letters are column after column, line after line, that
say 
Before I die I want to __________
. And the blanks have been filled in
with different colors of chalk, smudged and half melted from the rain and
snow, in all different handwriting.
We walk along reading. 
Before I die I want to have kids. Live in London.
Own a pet giraffe. Skydive. Divide by zero. Play the piano. Speak French.
Write a book. Travel to a different planet. Be a better dad than mine was.
Feel good about myself. Go to New York City. Know equality. Live
.
Finch bumps my arm and hands me a piece of blue chalk.
I say, “There’s no space left.”
“So we make some.”
He writes 
Before I die I want to
and draws a line. He writes it again. Then
he writes it a dozen more times. “After we fill these up, we can keep going on
the front of the building and down the other side. It’s a good way to figure out
just why we’re here.” And I know by “here” he doesn’t mean this sidewalk.
He starts writing: