I found it curious that people kept animals for companionship and not food. When I'd asked Mama Oaks when she planned to cook the fat creature that slept in a basket in the kitchen, her eyes almost popped out of her head. Since then, she'd kept her pet away from me, like she suspected I meant to turn it into stew. Clearly, I had a lot to learn.

My body was a machine, plain and simple. I worked it to stay strong; I fed it to keep it running.

After people have gone, you forget their faults, and you recall the ideal more than the person.

I think my head's a minefield strewn with triggers, and maybe if I survive each explosion, what emerges from the wreckage will be me, really, truly me.

Beautiful. And ugly. The world is always both.

He'd said the sun could burn me. It certainly looked angry enough, all orange and glowing mad.

She carries chaos like an overcoat.