They were here all at once, but not together. Survival took self-absorption, and it made them strangers with nothing to do and no way to relate. Emergencies gave you a shape and a plot to take part in, while death was no story at all. It left you nothing.

When you feel someone else's pain and joy as powerfully as if it were your own, then you know you really loved them.

Exactly! We run or we lose ourselves in something, somebody, anything to try and ease our pain.

Bridget cried for the leavers and the left. For the people, like herself, grimly forsaking what precious gifts they would ever get.

Don't talk to me. I'm tired and grumpy and I'll probably make fun of you.

Besides being asked why I write about young characters, I am often asked how I write about young characters. How do I throw myself across the chasm of full adulthood to relive that period? I guess I don’t, really. Age is not so much a feature of your character, as the spot where you stand for a pretty fleeting time on the arc of your life.

The dreams weren’t as pleasing when they had no chance of coming true