There’s nothing like a gunshot to make you the life of the party.

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.

Changing is what people do when they have no options left.

You have to write a lot. And you have to rewrite what you wrote a lot more.

You don't have to protect these people, Cassel." I am these people.

The first boy I fell in love with didn't know I loved him, but he managed to break my heart anyway.

They say that nameless things change constantly—that names fix them in place like pins.