I haven't had a very good day. I think I might still be hung over and everyone's dead and my root beer's gone.

Lie until even you believe it - that's the real secret of lying

You in trouble?” Sam asks. The way he says it, I wonder if he’s thinking about how to get out of here if I am.

Every hero is the villain of his own story.

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

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.

I'm not good at having friends. I mean, I can make myself useful to people. I can fit in. I get invited to parties and I can sit at any table I want in the cafeteria. But actually trusting someone when they have nothing to gain from me just doesn't make sense. All friendships are negotiations of power.