Announcing your death should be like announcing that you are a lunar moth: It must be done quietly or it will not be believed.

Reading is one form of escape. Running for your life is another.

Here we are at the bottom, almost empty. It's like confetti, these dried remnants you find in the street for a party no one invited you to. But they used to be, I can admit, part of something beautiful.

There was still plenty of water in the basement, and I felt it soaking me from the knees on down. If someone wanted to torture me until I told them a critical piece of information, all they would have to do is get my socks wet. It feels terrible.

Every new promise was like something heavy I had to carry, with no place to put anything down.

The sad truth is the truth is sad.

Hal is on his way." The nurse announced reentering the room.