If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?

I'm deeply, madly, freakishly in love with my current novel. I want to talk about it all the time. I think about it while I take a shower or lay in bed. My son, peeved at my preoccupation, asked me, "If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?" I just might.

Here's the prologue.

THE SAME RIVER, TWICE

CHAPTER 1              FREEDOM

            She sipped and sipped and sipped, lips puckered, a girl-child sucking frantically at the air. 

            Her lungs were greedy, insatiable. It wasn’t because of the water licking her chin, hungry. It wasn’t because of the fingers of terror prying at her twelve year old brain. No. Sloan’s inability to breathe was due to the rapidly diminishing oxygen in their Honda Accord, currently residing at the bottom of the Willamette River.

            Her father sat in the front seat, unmoving, staring at her over the waves in the rearview mirror. His bland stare, void of the usual anxiety, chilled her as the river filled the interior, a slight flitting of his eyelashes the only sign of life. Sloan's mute appeal went unanswered. She struggled against the seatbelt, her numbed fingers bludgeoning the plastic button until, finally, the strap released its hold.

            “Dad! Dad!” she croaked, head tilted back into the dwindling free space. The panic burst, bloomed. Beating on her window, the force of her strikes slowed to cartoon speed in the thick water. The door would not budge. The power window sat tight, as tight as her father, a statue dedicated to the perfect driving posture, hands at ten and two, spine straight, face forward, immune to distractions.

            Sloan swiped at the oil dripping into her eyes, uncertain if the dark runnels were real or if her brain was signaling an imminent shut down. It didn’t matter. The dwindling space between the river and the plaid ceiling surged to less than an inch. Too tired to crank her nose back any further, she could only see the top of her father’s head now, his black hair floating like a toupee on the gentle swells; he’d already given up.

            She knew why. It was the water. It was so calming, so comforting, caressing her at every point on her skin. She stopped struggling. She realized she was free. The air had expected so much of her, to breathe, to talk, to please, to live. The water just gave.

            Then she felt a concussion in the soft liquid surrounding her, saw the side window web into shattered chunks. A white hand thrust through the murk, grabbing the collar of her sweater. Her first instinct was to jerk away but then her last oxygenated brain cell clicked into action, demanding she go limp as she was dragged through the jagged glass. She didn’t bother holding her breathe – the water didn’t expect it of her.

            Instead, she let herself lose consciousness, the last image before blacking out incomprehensible.

            Her father, glowing skin and black eyes, had turned. She couldn’t swear to it, nor did she want to, but her final impression was of his pale fingers grabbing for her as she was yanked clear.