At night, the house thick with sleep, she would peer out her bedroom window at the trees and sky and feel the presence of a mystery. Some possibility that included her--separate from her present life and without its limitations. A secret. Riding in the car with her father, she would look out at other cars full of people she'd never seen, any one of whom she might someday meet and love, and would feel the world holding her making its secret plans.

Being somewhere but not completely: that was home for Danny. . . . All he needed was a cellphone or I-access, or both at once, or even just a plan to leave wherever he was and go someplace else really really soon.

One area I have a huge amount of trouble in is writing about myself. I get a heavy, almost depressed feeling.

Kissing Mother Superior, incompetent, hairball, poppy seeds, on the can.

But it was another girl, young and new to the city, fiddling with her keys.

So I feel that lack of qualification. And I'm scared. And I have a tendency to think things may not/probably won't work out. That's my basic mindset.

That we have some history together that hasn’t happened yet.