In the ensuing silence, I have time to contemplate the word cute— how dismissive it is, how it’s the equivalent of calling someone little, how it makes a person into a baby, how the word is a neon sign burning through the dark reading, “Feel Bad About Yourself.

Can I ask you about Caroline Mathers?" "And you say there's no afterlife.

We're professional worriers. You're constantly imagining things that could go wrong and then writing about them.

People are supposed to care. It's good that people mean something to you, that you miss people when they're gone.

This is so much fun, but I’m so sleepy. To be continued?

I didn't want to see them lower him into the ground in the spot he'd picked out with his dad, and I didn't want to see his parents sink to their knees in the dew-wet grass and moan in pain.

I will play out the string. I will not betray your trust. I will find you.