The Love Hypothesis Olive Quotes

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when she was sitting on her bed staring at the Boston skyline and chewing on her lunch, that Olive realized that the protein bar Adam had given her was covered in chocolate.

This might be inappropriate but... Olive. You are really... You are extraordinary

Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over & over, & in ways that could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone.

Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. “What do I always tell you?” “Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel pipette’?” “The other thing.” She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.’ 

Did you… Did you just kiss me?” He sounded puzzled, and maybe a little out of breath. His lips were full and plump and… God. Kissed. There was simply no way Olive could get away with denying what she had just done. Still, it was worth a try. “Nope.” Surprisingly, it seemed to work. “Ah. Okay, then.” Carlsen nodded and turned around, looking vaguely disoriented. He took a couple of steps down the hallway, reached the water fountain - maybe where he’d headed in the first place. Olive was starting to believe that she might actually be off the hook when he halted and turned back with a skeptical expression. “Are you sure?

It never occurred to Olive that Dr. Adam Carlsen—known ass—had called her by her name.

What did Adam's fortune cookie say?" "Mmm." Olive made a show to look at the strip. "Not much. Just 'Holden Rodrigues, Ph.D., is a loser.'" Malcolm sped up just as Holden flipped her off, making her burst into laughter. "What does it really say?" Adam asked when they were finally alone. Olive handed him the crumpled paper and remained silent as he angled it to read it in the lamplight. She wasn't surprised when she saw a muscle jump in his jaw, or when he slid the fortune into the pocket of his jeans. She knew what it said, after all. You can fall in love: someone will catch you.

She frowned. “I asked if I could kiss you, and you said yes.” “Incorrect. You asked if you could kiss me and I snorted.” “I’m pretty sure I heard you said yes.” He lifted one eyebrow, and for a minute Olive let herself daydream of drowning someone. Dr. Carlsen. Herself. Both sounded like great options.

I am going to take care of this,” he told her. There was something determined, earnest in his eyes. Olive had never felt safer, or more loved. “And then I’ll come find you, and I’ll take care of you.

She had not figured that Adam would notice her while in conversation with a young, beautiful faculty member. She had not figured that he’d suddenly stop speaking, eyes widening and lips parting; that he’d mutter “Excuse me” while staring at Olive and stand from the table, ignoring the curious looks in his directions that he’d march to the entrance, where Olive was, with quick, long strides and a concerned expression. “Olive, are you okay?” he asked her.

It will be fine Olive" His smile softened. "And if not, at least it will be over

He gave her a brief nod, and then—Olive, or at least Olive’s body, was stepping toward Adam and gingerly sitting on his thigh, her knees tucked between his spread legs. It was happening. It had happened already. Olive was here. Sitting. On. Adam. This. Yep, this. This was her life now.

Picture this, Olive. Early two thousands. Preppy, ridiculously expensive all-male DC school. Two gay students in grade twelve. Well, two of us that were out, anyway. Richie Muller and I date for the entirety of senior year - and then he dumps me three days before prom for some guy he’d been having a thing with for months.” “He was a prick,” Adam muttered. “I have three choices. Not go to the dance and mope at home. Go alone and mope at school. Or, have my best friend - who was planning on staying home and moping over gamma-aminobutyric acids - come as my date. Guess which?” Olive gasped. “How did you convince him?” “That’s the thing, I didn’t. When I told him about what Richie did, he offered!

Is everything okay?” He said it looking into her eyes, in a low, intimate tone. Like they were alone. Like Anh was not there. He said it in a way that should have made Olive uncomfortable but didn't. For some inexplicable reason his presence in the room soothed her, even though until a second ago she had been freaking out. Perhaps two different types of unease neutralized each other?

He opened his mouth, and then closed it. And then opened it again. You kissed that mouth, Olive. And it was a good kiss.

They should just give him a cot and donate the money to worthy causes. Endangered whales. Psoriasis. Olive.

He said it - "with you"- like Olive was something special, uniquely precious to him. His most beloved treasure. It made her want to shiver, and laugh, and weep at the same time. It made her happy and confused.

It hit her then what was so special about Adam. That no matter his reputation, or how rocky their first meeting, since the very beginning, Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over and over, and in ways that she could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone. [...]She might never have what she wanted from Adam, but for now at least, he was in her life. That was going to have to be enough.

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "I'll just do what Dr. Aslan always says." "And what's that?" "Carry myself with the confidence of a mediocre white man." He grinned, and there they were. The heart-stopping dimples. "It will be fine, Olive." His smile softened. "And if not, at least it will be over.

Nuh-uh. This is a Hallmark movie. Or a poorly written young adult novel. That will not sell well. Olive, tell Malcolm to keep his day job, he’ll never make it as a writer.

How old were you-” “Tom,” Adam interrupted, tone sharp. He set his tea down with more force than necessary. “Stop harassing my girlfriend.” It was less of a warning and more of a threat. “Right. Yes I’m an insensitive ass.” Tom smiled, apologetic. Olive noticed that he was looking at her shoulder. When she followed his gaze, she realized that Adam had placed his arm on the back of her chair. He wasn’t touching her, but there was something… protective about his position.

Standard protocol?" "Yup." "How many times have you done this?" "Zero. But I'm familiar with the trope." "The...what?" He blinked at her confused.

He was holding his key card and typing something in his phone, but stopped as soon as he looked up and noticed Olive. His mouth opened, and— That was it. It just stayed open.

What kind of question was that?” Adam interjected. When she glanced at him, he was scowling at Tom, who just shrugged. “What’s cool about your project?” Adam repeated back. “Yeah. Cool. You know what I mean.” “I don’t think I do, and maybe neither does Olive.” Tom huffed. “Fine, what would you ask?” Adam turned to Olive. His knee brushed her leg, warm and oddly reassuring through her jeans. “What issues does your project target? Why do you think it’s significant? What gaps in the literature does it fill? What techniques are you using? What challenges do you foresee?” Tom huffed. “Right, sure. Consider all those long, boring questions asked, Olive.

Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. “What do I always tell you?” “Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel pipette’?” “The other thing.” She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.’ ” “More than that, if possible. Since there is absolutely nothing mediocre about you.

Maybe my brain is broken." -Olive

She grinned. "Oh, yes. I mean, if you want to." "I'd rather buy you anything else." "Too bad." Olive jumped to her feet and headed for the counter, tugging at his sleeve and forcing him to stand with her. Adam followed meekly, mumbling something about black coffee that Olive chose to ignore. Enough, she repeated to herself. What you have now, it will have to be enough.

Impossible. Improbable. Inconceivable. Just like everything else about Adam and Olive.

So he’d actually been listening when Olive vomited her life story at him.

She would have loved to have someone in her life, but she doubted it was in store for her. Maybe she was unlovable. Maybe spending so many years alone had warped her in some fundamental way and that was why she seemed to be unable to develop a true romantic connection, or even the type of attraction she often heard others talk about. In the end, it didn’t really matter. Grad school and dating went poorly together, anyway, which was probably why Dr. Adam Carlsen, MacArthur Fellow and genius extraordinaire, was standing here at thirtysomething years old, asking Olive what people did on dates. Academics, ladies and gentlemen.

I am going to take care of this," he told her. There was something determined, earnest in his eyes. Olive had never felt safer, or more loved. "And then I'll come find you, and take care of you.

Olive was twenty-three and alone in the world. She didn’t want weekends, or a decent salary. She wanted to go back in time. She wanted to be less lonely. But since that was impossible, she’d settle for fixing what she could.

It hit her then what was so special about Adam. That no matter his reputation, or how rocky their first meeting, since the very beginning, Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over and over, and in ways that she could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone.

It had been one of her mother's favorite stories. And now Olive was the only person who could tell it. It lived in her, and no one else.

Olive." He pulled her closer, pressing his lips against her forehead. "It doesn't matter. Whatever it is that you're crying about, I will fix it. I will make it right. I-

It’s okay, Olive. Breathe.

Olive was reminded of that guy from the bathroom, from years ago. I have no idea if you’re good enough, he’d told her. What matters is whether your reason to be in academia is good enough. He’d said that Olive’s reason was the best one, and therefore, she could do this. She needed to do this.

Is it the public-speaking thing?" He'd remembered. Of course he had. "Yeah. It will be awful." Adam stared at her and said nothing. Not that it would be fine, not that the talk would go smoothly, not that she was overreacting and underselling a fantastic opportunity. His calm acceptance of her anxiety had the exact opposite effect of Dr. Aslan's enthusiasm: it relaxed her. "When I was in my third year of grad school," he said quietly, “my adviser sent me to give a faculty symposium in his stead. He told me only two days before, without any slides or a script. Just the title of the talk." "Wow." Olive tried to imagine what that would have felt like,

Frankly, Olive was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing. Not because she didn’t like science. (She did. She loved science. Science was her thing.) And not because of the truckload of obvious red flags. She was well aware that committing to years of unappreciated, underpaid eighty-hour workweeks might not be good for her mental health. That nights spent toiling away in front of a Bunsen burner to uncover a trivial slice of knowledge might not be the key to happiness. That devoting her mind and body to academic pursuits with only infrequent breaks to steal unattended bagels might not be a wise choice. She was well aware, and yet none of it worried her.

I had a vision of your future in academia.” Olive wrapped her arms around Anh. “What vision?” “You were a high-powered researcher, surrounded by students who hung on your every word. And you were answering a multiparagraph email with an uncapitalized no.” “Nice. Was I happy?” “Of course not.” Anh snorted. “It’s academia.

She was just going to pretend nothing had happened, nod at him politely, and tiptoe her way out of here. Yes, solid plan. "Did you . . . Did you just kiss me?" He sounded puzzled, and maybe a little out of breath. His lips were full and plump and . . . God. Kissed. There was simply no way Olive could get away with denying what she had just done. Still, it was worth a try. "Nope." Surprisingly, it seemed to work. "Ah. Okay, then." Carlsen nodded and turned around, looking vaguely disoriented. He took a couple of steps down the hallway, reached the water fountain—maybe where he'd been headed in the first place. Olive was starting to believe that she might actually be off the hook when he halted and turned back with a skeptical expression. "Are you sure?

This fact was not remarkable in and of itself, as in academia every position above the graduate student level (Olive’s level, sadly) required some degree of assness in order to be held for any length of time, with tenured faculty at the very peak of the ass pyramid.

Olive scowled. “Are you trying to get me to decline my offer? Is this some kind of anti–expired-contacts-wearers campaign?

I'll do what Dr. Alsan always says.' 'And what's that?' 'Carry myself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.' He grinned, and- there they were. The heart-stopping dimples. 'It will be fine, Olive.' His smile softened. 'And if not, at least it will be over.

Adam ignored him, and everyone else. He headed straight for Olive, and - He cradled her head with both hands, fingers sliding through her hair and holding her tight as he lowered his forehead to hers. He was warm, and smelled like himself, like safe and home. His thumbs swept through the mess of tears on her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -

Olive felt her shoulders sag with relief and had to resist the urge to fist-pump. Take that, you stupid rom-coms. She may have fallen for the dude she’d begun to fake-date like some born-yesterday fool, but at least she wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him any time soon.

Oh, wow. Thank you.” She smiled. “Now I’m actually a bit sorry that I can’t have you on my dissertation committee. Perhaps rumors of your cruelty have been greatly exaggerated.” His mouth twitched. “Maybe you just pull out the best in me?” She grinned. “Then maybe I should stick around. Just, you know, to save the department from your terrible moods?” He glanced at the picture of the failed Western blot in her hand. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to graduate anytime soon.” She half laughed, half gasped. “Oh my God. Did you just—?” “Objectively—” “This is the rudest, meanest thing—” She was laughing. Holding her stomach as she waved her finger at him. “—based on your blotting—” “—that anyone could ever say to a Ph.D. student. Ever.” “I think I can find meaner things. If I really put myself to it.” “We’re done.” She wished she weren’t smiling. Then maybe he’d take her seriously instead of just looking at her with that patient, amused expression. “Seriously. It was nice while it lasted.” She made to stand and leave indignantly, but he grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and gently tugged at it until she was sitting down again, next to him on the narrow couch—maybe even a little closer than before. She continued glaring, but he regarded her blandly, clearly unperturbed. “There’s nothing bad about taking more than five years to graduate,” he offered in a conciliatory tone. Olive huffed. “You just want me to stay around forever. Until you have the biggest, fattest, strongest Title IX case to ever exist.

Look at this abomination,” She grinned. “No way.” “Appalling.” “Amazing, you mean.” “I do not.” “This is my new favorite restaurant.” “You haven’t even tried it yet.” “It will be spectacular.” “It will be horrific—” “What’s all that about?” “Oh.” Olive’s cheeks warmed a little. “Nothing. They just have pumpkin spice bubble tea.

What about Chinese?" [...] "Olive?" "Um...I like Chinese." "Perfect. So does Adam, so -" "I'm not having dinner out," Adam said. Holden frowned. "Why?" "I have better things to do." "Like what? Olive's coming, too." "Leave Olive alone. She's tired, and we're busy." "I have access to your Google Calendar, asshole. You're not busy. [...]

Maybe not. Maybe all the talking, and those looks Adam gave her, and him shaking his head when she ordered extra whipped cream; the way he let himself be teased out of his moods; the texts; how he seemed to be so at ease with her, so noticeably different from the Adam Carlsen she used to be half-scared of—maybe all of that was not much. But she and Adam were friends now, and they could remain friends even past September twenty-ninth. Olive’s heart sank at the thought of giving up the possibility of it.

Besa -pensó Olive- como un hombre muerto de hambre." Como si llevara esperando esto todo ese tiempo. Conteniéndose. Como si la posibilidad de que ambos hicieran algo así ya se le hubiera pasado por la cabeza en el pasado, pero la hubiese apartado, la hubiese ocultado en un lugar profundo y oscuro donde se había convertido en algo temible y fuera de control.

Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over and over, and in ways that she could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone.

Adam Carlsen. Destroyer of research careers, Olive had once overheard her adviser say.

The Guy in the bathroom. He’d said that academia was a lot of bucks for little bang, and that one needed a good reason to stick around. Olive wondered where he was now.

Oh.” Olive’s cheeks heated at the indignation in his voice. Right. Of course he didn’t expect that. Or even want that, with her. Look at him

In Olive’s defense, the man didn’t seem to mind the kiss too much.

Okay. Second rule. Actually, it could be interpreted as an extension of the first rule. But”—Olive bit into her lip, willing herself to bring it up—“no sex.

Olive gasped. And gasped

Dating like it was an Olympic sport! (“It is an Olympic sport, Olive. And I am training for gold.”)

Vai dar tudo certo, Olive. – Seu sorriso ficou mais fraco. – E, se não der, pelo menos vai ter acabado.

Adam rolled his eyes, clearly amused. “Olive, this is my friend and collaborator. Dr. Tom Benton.

He kisses, Olive thought, like a man starved.

But Anh was going to have her beautiful love story, and Olive wouldn’t have to wait for ages to use the electron microscope.

Ik hou jan vou, Adam." -Olive Smith

Introduce me as your friend.” Adam rolled his eyes, clearly amused. “Olive, this is my friend and collaborator. Dr. Tom Benton.

Hey.” The voice, deep and even, came from somewhere behind Olive, but she didn’t need to turn to know that it was Carlsen’s.

So you kissed the first person you saw in the hallway. Perfectly logical." Olive winced. "When you put it like that, perhaps it wasn't my best moment." "Perhaps." "But it wasn't my worst either!

It’s okay. This whole thing is weird.” The silence between them stretched, and Olive noticed that he was blushing faintly. Just a dusting of red, but he looked so . . . Olive couldn’t stop staring.

I am going to take care of this," he told her. There was something determined, earnest in his eyes. Olive had never felt safer, or more loved. "And then I'll come find you, and I'lI take care of you.

vision of your future in academia.” Olive wrapped her arms around Anh. “What vision?” “You were a high-powered researcher, surrounded by students who hung on your every word. And you were answering a

When the weight in her belly began to feel too heavy, her knees gave out on her and her back slid down until she sat on the floor. Olive stayed like that for a long time, trying to pretend that this wasn’t her life.

in academia every position above the graduate student level (Olive’s level, sadly) required some degree of assness in order to be held for any length of time, with tenured faculty at the very peak of the ass pyramid.

He’s actually gotten a lot better, since you guys started dating.” Olive felt on the verge of a full-body cringe. Unsure of what to say, she settled for a simple, painful, awkward: “Really?” Holden nodded. “Yep. I’m so glad he finally scrounged up the courage to ask you out. He’d been going on and on about this ‘amazing girl’ for years, but he was concerned about being in the same department, and you know how he is . . .” He shrugged and waved his hand.

You are not mediocre, Olive. You were not invited to speak because people think that you are my girlfriend - there is no such thing, since SBD's abstracts go through a blind review process. I would know, because I've been roped into reviewing them in the past. And the work you presented is important, rigorous and brilliant." He took a deep breath. His shoulders rose and fell in time with the thudding of her heart. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.

That no matter his reputation, or how rocky their first meeting, since the very beginning, Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over and over, and in ways that she could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone.

There was something about the way he talked. Maybe it was an accent maybe just the quality of his voice. Olive doesn't quite know what, but it was there, in the way he said her name. Precise. Careful. Deep. Unlike anyone else. Familiar-impossibly so.

Adam: Think I can smuggle this on the plane? She didn’t need to be told that she was grinning at her phone like an idiot. Olive: Well, TSA is notoriously incompetent. Olive: Though maybe not that incompetent? Adam: Too bad. Adam: Wish you were here, then.

Yeah, but there are other computational modelers in the department. And I’d like to eventually graduate, ideally without sobbing in a bathroom stall after each committee meeting.” He glared at her. Olive shrugged. “No offense. I’m a simple girl, with simple needs.

Carlsen. Is he blackmailing you? Did he find out that you’re an aberration and pee in the shower?” “First of all, it’s time efficient.” Olive glared. “Second, I find it oddly flattering that you’d think Carlsen would go to these ridiculous lengths to get me to date him.

Había algo en su forma de hablar. Tal vez fue un acento, tal vez solo la calidez de su voz. Olive no sabía muy bien qué, pero estaba allí, en la forma en que dijo su nombre. Preciso. Cuidadoso. Profundo. A diferencia de cualquier otra persona. Familiar, increíblemente así.

Adam Carlsen was handsome. Adam Carlsen, with his long nose and wavy hair, with his full lips and angular face that shouldn’t have fit together but somehow did, was really, really, really handsome. Olive had no clue why it hadn’t registered before, or why what made her realize it was him putting on a plain black shirt.

remembered The Guy in the bathroom. He’d said that academia was a lot of bucks for little bang, and that one needed a good reason to stick around. Olive wondered where he was now. If he’d managed to graduate. If he knew that he’d helped someone make one of the hardest decisions of their life. If he had any idea that there was a girl, somewhere in the world, who thought about their random encounter surprisingly often. Doubtful.

You were so amazing,” Anh told her when it was over, pushing up to hug her. “Also, you look hot and professional, and while you were talking, I had a vision of your future in academia.” Olive wrapped her arms around Anh. “What vision?” “You were a high-powered researcher, surrounded by students who hung on your every word. And you were answering a multiparagraph email with an uncapitalized no.” “Nice. Was I happy?” “Of course not.” Anh snorted. “It’s academia.

Did you . . . Did you just kiss me?” He sounded puzzled, and maybe a little out of breath. His lips were full and plump and . . . God. Kissed. There was simply no way Olive could get away with denying what she had just done. Still, it was worth a try. “Nope.” Surprisingly, it seemed to work. “Ah. Okay, then.” Carlsen nodded and turned around, looking vaguely disoriented. He took a couple of steps down the hallway, reached the water fountain—maybe where he’d been headed in the first place.

Fake dating.’ Like it’s a thing.” “Because it is. Don’t you watch rom-coms?” He stared at her with a puzzled expression, until she cleared her throat and looked down at her knees. “Right.” God, they had nothing in common. They’d never find anything to talk about. Their ten-minute coffee breaks were going to be the most painful, awkward parts of her already painful, awkward weeks. But Anh was going to have her beautiful love story, and Olive wouldn’t have to wait for ages to use the electron microscope. That was all that mattered.

So . . . not the haircut?” “Mm? Ah, no. It was a weird length. Getting in my way while I was running.” Oh. So he was a runner. Like Olive. “Okay. Great. Because it doesn’t look bad.” It looks good. As in, really good. You were probably one of the most handsome men I’d ever talked to last week, but now you look even better. Not that I care about these things. I don’t care at all. I rarely notice guys, and I’m not sure why I’m noticing you, or your hair, or your clothes, or how tall and broad you are. I really don’t get it. I never care. Usually. Ugh.

She would have loved to have someone in her life, but she doubted it was in store for her. Maybe she was unlovable. Maybe spending so many years alone had warped her in some fundamental way and that was why she seemed to be unable to develop a true romantic connection, or even the type of attraction she often heard others talk about. In the end, it didn’t really matter. Grad school and dating went poorly together, anyway, which was probably why Dr. Adam Carlsen, MacArthur Fellow and genius extraordinaire, was standing here at thirty-something years old, asking Olive what people did on dates. Academics, ladies and gentlemen.

Olive barely managed to wait until she was outside to fist-pump, then jump around a few times, then fist-pump again. “You all done?” Adam asked. She turned around, remembering that she wasn’t alone. His arms were folded on his chest, fingers drumming against his biceps. There was an indulgent expression in his eyes, and—she should have been embarrassed, but she just couldn’t help it. Olive threw herself at him and hugged his torso as tight as she could. She closed her eyes when, after a few seconds of hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her. “Congratulations,” he whispered softly against her hair. Just like that Olive was on the verge of tears all over again.

Maybe she was a little naive about sex. But she truly hadn’t thought about it for ages before Adam, and even then, it was never quite in these terms—him above her, pushing her legs wide open with his palms on her inner thighs and then kneeling between them. Sliding down, low. “What are you—” The way he parted her with his tongue, it was as though she was butter and he meant to slice through her like a hot knife. He was slow but sure, and didn’t pause when Olive’s thigh stiffened against his palm, or when she tried to squirm away. He just grunted, rich and low; then ran his nose in the skin at the juncture of her abdomen, inhaling deeply; and then he licked her once more.

guess I’ll maybe see you after my talk, then?” “Of course.” “And after yours. Good luck. And congrats. It’s such a huge honor.” Adam didn’t seem to be thinking about that, though. He lingered by the door, his hand on the knob as he looked back at Olive. Their eyes held for a few moments before he told her, “Don’t be nervous, okay?” She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I’ll just do what Dr. Aslan always says.” “And what’s that?” “Carry myself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.” He grinned, and—there they were. The heart-stopping dimples. “It will be fine, Olive.” His smile softened. “And if not, at least it will be over.” It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when she was sitting on her bed staring at the Boston skyline and chewing on her lunch, that Olive realized that the protein bar Adam had given her was covered in chocolate.

One can never tell in advance what the practical use or scientific implications of anything new might be. Who would have thought that germanium—an obscure “semimetal” discovered in the 1880s—would turn out to be crucial to the development of transistors? Or that elements like neodymium and samarium, regarded for a century as mere curiosities, would be essential to the making of unprecedentedly powerful permanent magnets? Such questions are, in a sense, beside the point. We search for the island of stability because, like Mount Everest, it is there. But, as with Everest, there is profound emotion, too, infusing the scientific search to test a hypothesis. The quest for the magic island shows us that science is far from being coldness and calculation, as many people imagine, but is shot through with passion, longing, and romance.

But we know from the experience of Tony Cicoria and many others that a hallucinatory journey to the bright light and beyond, a full-blown NDE, can occur in twenty or thirty seconds, even though it seems to last much longer. Subjectively, during such a crisis, the very concept of time may seem variable or meaningless. The one most plausible hypothesis in Dr. Alexander’s case, then, is that his NDE occurred not during his coma, but as he was surfacing from the coma and his cortex was returning to full function. It is curious that he does not allow this obvious and natural explanation but instead insists on a supernatural one.

The world is supposed to make sense. We want and need the things that happen to us and to those around us to adhere to laws of order and justice and reason. We want to believe that if we live wisely and follow the rules, things will work out, more or less, for us and for those we love. Psychologists refer to this as the Just World Hypothesis, a theory first developed by the social psychologist Melvin Lerner. Lerner postulated that people have a powerful intuition that individuals get what they deserve. This intuition influences how we judge those who suffer. When a person is harmed, we instinctually look for a reason or a justification. Unfortunately, this instinct leads to victim-blaming. As Oliver Burkeman writes in The Guardian, “Faced with evidence of injustice, we’ll certainly try to alleviate it if we can—but, if we feel powerless to make things right, we’ll do the next best thing, psychologically speaking: we’ll convince ourselves that the world isn’t so unjust after all.” Burkeman cites as evidence a 2009 study finding that Holocaust memorials can increase anti-Semitism: “Confronted with an atrocity they otherwise can’t explain, people become slightly more likely, on average, to believe that the victims must have brought it on themselves.” So what happens when the victim is a child, a little boy walking to school, a little girl riding her bike, a baby in a car, victims impossible to blame? Whom can we hold accountable when a child is killed or injured or abused or forgotten? How can one take in this information, the horror of it, and keep on believing the world is just? In his history of childhood in America, the historian Steven Mintz defines a “moral panic” as the term used by sociologists to describe “the highly exaggerated and misplaced public fears that periodically arise within a society.” Mintz suggests that “eras of ethical conflict and confusion are especially prone to outbreaks of moral panic as particular incidents crystallize generalized anxieties and provoke moral crusades.” The late 1970s through the early 1990s was a period in American history rife with sources of ethical conflict and confusion.