Boy meets girl
Girl meets windshield, forgets boy
Girl starts to remember, looks for boy
Uh-oh
Boy might not be real...
A girl who can’t remember. A book you won’t forget.
From debut author Margarita Montimore.
About ASLEEP FROM DAY

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"This book ticked all my boxes: unusual narrative structure, setting as a character, witty banter, and whip-smart writing... I loved it, and I'll be thinking about it for a long time."
— Rachel Lynn Solomon, author of You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone “Every part of this book was confidently crafted to create this dreamy, charismatic experience of being utterly submerged in a mystery and desperately seeking truth.”
— Michelle Hazen, author of A Cruel Kind of Beautiful
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Excerpt:
Outside a pizza place is a pay phone. Who else can I call? Hand on receiver, before I can decide, the phone rings. I pull back, like I’ve been burned.
Briiiiiing!!! Briiiiiing!!!
There’s absolutely nobody around, no one who might be waiting for a call.
Briiiiiing!!!
“Hello?” Why am I answering the phone? It’s not like—
“Astrid?”
If déjà vu is a feather down the spine, this sensation is a razor.
I must have misheard.
“Astrid, are you there?” The same male voice from my dream, the static now on my end in the form of the noisy downpour.
“Who is this?” I ask. “How did you know I would answer the phone?”
Before he replies, tranquility trickles into my veins like one of those lovely drugs pumped into me at the hospital. Of course. There’s no need to worry about any of it. This is just another dream.
“You’ll find out who I am soon enough,” he says. “There are more important things you need to deal with first.”
“Sure there are. Like what kind of snack I’ll have when I wake up.”
A pause on his end. “You’re not dreaming, Astrid.”
It stops raining, abruptly.
“The car accident, the fire, your friend’s overdose,” he continues, “All of those are real things.”
“Who are you? You’re scaring me.” I look around, expect to see someone lurking in a dark trench coat.

“Do you...” My mouth is parched, my voice hoarse. “Do you go by your middle name?” I clear my throat, hold onto the phone with both hands. “Please tell me your name.”
“You already know my name, Astrid. You just need to remember it. But first, you need to find a place to sleep.”
“You mean a place to wake up. Right here would be perfect.”
He sighs. “Don’t do that. Don’t deny what’s real.”
How am I supposed to tell the difference?
“Astrid, you’re going to be fine. That’s all I wanted to tell you. We’ll speak again soon.”
The line goes dead.
Author Bio:

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