There are legions of us, I realized. The mothers who have broken babies, and spend the rest of our lives wondering if we should have spared them. And the mothers who have let their broken babies go, who look at our children and see instead the faces of the ones they never met.

Just because it's fiction doesn't mean it's any less true.

For me it's more important that I outline all the facets of a controversial issue and let the reader make up his or her mind. I don't care if readers change their minds, but I would like readers to ask themselves why their opinion is what it is.

I always hated when my scars started to fade, because as long as I could still see them, I knew why I was hurting.

Then they scrambled through the window and into the darkness, determined to turn themselves into what they were not.

Yes, she is." He looks at me, his face carved in pain. "She is dying, Sara. She will die, either tonight or tomorrow or maybe a year from now if we're really lucky. You heard what Dr. Chance said. Arsenic's not a cure. It just postpones what's coming." My eyes fill up with tears. "But I love her," I say, because that is reason enough.

it was possible to grow up in an instant, that you could look down and see the line in the sand dividing your life now from what it used to be.