Remember that time in the minivan, twenty minutes ago, when we didn't die?

For the longest time, it felt kind of like my chest was cracking open, but not precisely in an unpleasant way.

You can't just make me different and then leave. You can't. You can't change me and make my whole life centered around you, then leave.

Not to ask the obvious question, but why Alaska?

We only have so long to play in the dirt and ask questions of rivers.

I kept it for myself like a keepsake, as if sharing the memory might lead to its dissipation.

That’s part of what I like about the book in some ways. It portrays death truthfully. You die in the middle of your life, in the middle of a sentence