After that, she wasn't sure what the game was or if she'd imagined it. All she knew was that she had lost.

It’s just that you go so crazy being alone like that. Sometimes he’d forget my water or food and I’d cry and cry and cry.” She stops talking and looks out the window. “I would try to tell myself stories to pass the time. Fairy tales. Parts of books. But they got used up.

You better get over here with my car,” Grandad says. “Before I call the cops and tell them you stole it.” “Sorry,” I say contritely. Then the rest of what he said sinks in and I laugh. “Wait, did you just threaten me with calling the police? Because that I’d like to see.

If curiosity killed the cat, it was satisfaction that brought it back.

You want me to say something? Okay. Sometimes I think I am what you made me. And sometimes I don’t know who I am at all. And either way I’m not happy.

You're like this leopard who's pretending to be a house cat.

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.