Cold,” he said, pressing a finger to my pale wrist. “Not cold so much as underoxygenated,” I said. “I love it when you talk medical to me,” he said. He stood, and pulled me up with him, and did not let go of my hand until we reached the stairs.

And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between author and reader and I think not ending your book kind of violates that contract.

The world may be broken, but hope is not crazy.

What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant.

The only person I really wanted to talk to about Augustus Water's death with was Augustus Waters.

I went on spouting bullshit Encouragements as Gus's parents, arm in arm, hugged each other and nodded at every word. Funerals, I had decided, are for the living.

There's a place in the brain for knowing what cannot be remembered.