Gail had a baby named Ned who was four months old, and a new look of baffled hurt, a left-behind sadness, like she saw that the great world kept spinning onward and away while she'd overnight become glued to her spot.

It's not always to the benefit of the story to have it so preordained.

I felt like a number of things in me as a writer just clicked.

This is how sudden things happened that haunted forever.

I said shut up once already, with my mouth.

Pine trees with low limbs spread over fresh snow made a stronger vault for the spirit than pews and pulpits ever could.

Long, dark, and lovely she had been, in those days before her mind broke and the parts scattered and she let them go.