It's too early for there to be any coffee. I stare dully at the empty pot in the common room, while Sam picks up a jar of instant grounds. "Don't," I warn him. He scoops up a heaping spoonful and, heedlessly, shovels it into his mouth. It crunches horribly. Then his eyes go wide. "Dry," he croaks. "Tongue...shriveling." I shake my head, picking up the jar. "It's dehydrated. You're supposed to add water. Good thing you're mostly made of water." He tries to say something. Brown powder dusts his shirt. "Also," I tell him, "that's decaf.

She didn't know how much she'd been hoping that he still loved her, until she felt how much it hurt to realize he didn't.

You are the only thing I have that is neither duty nor obligation, the only thing I chose for myself. The only thing I want.

Mine. The language of love is like that, possessive. That should be the first warning that it's not going to encourage anyone's betterment.

The funny thing about good people—people like Daneca—is that they really honestly don’t get the impulse toward evil. They have an incredibly hard time reconciling with the idea that a person who makes them smile can still be capable of terrible things. Which is why, although she’s accusing me of being a murderer, she seems more annoyed than actually worried about getting murdered. Daneca seems to persist in a belief that if I would just listen and understand how bad my bad choices are, I’d stop making them.

You sure you want to cross me?" In that moment she's her father's daughter.

No trouble ever got fixed late at night," he said. "Midnight is for regrets.