He’d only ever seen a gun once, a smaller one on the hip of that old deputy, a gun he’d always figured was more for show. He stuffed a fistful of deadly rounds in his pocket, thinking how each one could end an individual life, and understanding why such things were forbidden. Killing a man should be harder than waving a length of pipe in their direction. It should take long enough for one’s conscience to get in the way.

My life is too tight, he wanted to say. My skin is too tight. The walls are too tight.

It was a sad loss, this illusion of importance, a humbling blow.

some things are better off back in the past. Where they belong.

There were certain things, learned so young and remembered so deep that they felt like little stones in the center of her mind.

Even in the darkness, his smile threw shadows.

There are two competing philosophies in Wool: one is that people have to live under an iron thumb in order to survive, and the other one is that everyone should live completely freely and happily and everything will sort itself out.