What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, and hungrier, and a whole lot weirder. The ring on my finger was supposed to be a promise to spend our lives together. But my fiancé decided that wasn’t what he wanted. So he buried me alive. To my fiancé’s dismay, I’m not dead, or at least mostly not. I’m starting over. I’ll do things differently this time. I’m forty-three and finally ready to live my life for myself, shedding the shackles of what I’m “supposed” to do. Except something unexpected is happening to me—something strange. Danger is coming, but I’ll be ready. I’m done allowing someone else to dictate what I do with my life. It’s never too late to take control.