conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Rachel, Best, Books with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Girl Who Fell from the Sky'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first two paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Girl Who Fell from the Sky
  Grandma has walked me the half block from the hospital lobby to the bus stop. Her hand is wrapped around mine like a leash.
  It is fall 1982 in Portland and it is raining. Puddle water has splashed up on my new shoes. My girl-in-a-new-dress feeling has faded. My new-girl feeling has disappeared.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The red cloth cover has frayed on the bottom right corner. I rub my hands over the spine with its faded gold lettering. On the bottom of the inside cover I see my father's name, Roger Morse, written in crinkly cursive, his handwriting.
  Lakeisha follows me to my room. Before I have closed the door, she's run her hand across everything on my dresser top.
  Lakeisha talks fast and doesn't let me answer. She has picked up the framed picture of me and Drew and Aunt Loretta in front of the frozen falls.
  I wish I could say: Just like me, but taller. Like a grown-up me. If I describe what Mor really looks like it will make her seem plain: long blond hair, white skin; she had an accent (and that's important even though it's not something you could tell by looking at her). If I describe her to Lakeisha, it will make Mor seem like any other white person you'd see.
  Lakeisha stands in front of the bed and does the Pac-Man. She pulls me off the bed. "See, like this," she says, and she does it real slow. "In-out. In-out."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I rub my hands over the spine with its faded gold lettering. On the bottom of the inside cover I see my father's name, Roger Morse, written in crinkly cursive, his handwriting.
  Lakeisha follows me to my room. Before I have closed the door, she's run her hand across everything on my dresser top.
  Lakeisha talks fast and doesn't let me answer. She has picked up the framed picture of me and Drew and Aunt Loretta in front of the frozen falls.
  I wish I could say: Just like me, but taller. Like a grown-up me. If I describe what Mor really looks like it will make her seem plain: long blond hair, white skin; she had an accent (and that's important even though it's not something you could tell by looking at her). If I describe her to Lakeisha, it will make Mor seem like any other white person you'd see.
  Lakeisha stands in front of the bed and does the Pac-Man. She pulls me off the bed. "See, like this," she says, and she does it real slow. "In-out. In-out."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A flock of birds—both ducks and swans—circles near the water's edge to eat the bread crumbs and cakes an old woman throws nearby.
  Brick puts his arm around me. When he looks at me, it feels like no one has really seen me since the accident. In his eyes, I'm not the new girl. I'm not the color of my skin. I'm a story. One with a past and a future unwritten.
  When the coin lands in the water, it startles the feeding birds. Some squawk and swim away. Others take flight, including one awkward-looking swan that runs across the water.
  The swan takes one step. Three steps, four. It dips its head and then its wings catch the wind. It's hard to tell: Is it still running or is it flying now? It's on top of the water and in the air—like it's in two worlds at once. The swan flaps its wings again and again, three times, four, and then it's aloft. We watch it fly. Away.