I met Sandy Hunter, who now goes by the more formal (but certainly more distinctive) Sandra Patricia Hunter, during my time in Peterborough. She was living in a loft apartment above Sam The Record Man on George Street. I baby-sat her daughter once or twice. I remember thinking how exotic it seemed to have a refrigerator in the same room as your couch. One of my most prized possessions was a sketch she made of our mutual friend Patrick. Until one day it fell off the wall, and the broken glass ripped the sketch to shreds.
Sandy, er Sandra, has since moved west, her daughter has grown up, and she has launched a personal journey that, beyond whatever effects it's having on her life, is a compelling read.