“I thought we were in a church basement, but we are literally in the heart of Jesus.” “Someone should tell Jesus,” I said. “I mean, it's gotta be dangerous, storing children with cancer in your heart.” “I would tell Him myself.” Augustus said, “but unfortunately I am literally stuck inside of His heart, so He won't be able to hear me.”

Something invisible snapped inside her.

And so that is the question I leave you with in this final: What is your cause for hope?

As a reader, I don't feel a story has an obligation to make me happy. I want stories to show me a bigger world than the one I know.

I'm really not up for answering any questions that start with how, when, where, why or what.

"Nothing ever happens like you imagine it will," she says. The sky is like a monochromatic contemporary painting, drawing me in with its illusion of depth, pulling me up. "Yeah, that's true," I say. But then after I think about it for a second, I add, "But then again, if you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all."

I think forever is an incorrect concept.