Waking up in the middle of a cemetery was never high on my bucket list—not that I had a bucket list at twenty-two—but if I had one at all, hanging out in a graveyard wasn’t ever going to be on it.

Of all the things that could have woken me up, it was the grainy yet damp sensation of dirt on my hands that did the trick.

Not the rain pelting me. Not the lash of wind chilling me to the bone. Not the fact that I was outside when I should be warm in my bed. No, those kernels of awareness came la...