Someday I’d like to write a story about a boy named Jett mainly because I like the name. It’s a great fictional name. Don’t you agree? But I didn’t make it up. Jett was a real person who dated a relative of mine when they were teenagers.
Years later, my relative attended his funeral. As she looked into the casket, a tear fell from her eye and landed on his cheek. She reached down to wipe it off, but a woman stopped her.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “Jett would have liked it. He never got over you.”
How’s that for a prologue? Not only is real life stranger than fiction; sometimes it’s better.