I don't know if it was love or an illusion. I don't know if there's ever a way to be certain.

None of the wives mention the security guards by the door, who will probably tackle us to the ground if we try to leave without our husbands.

Suddenly the clouds seem high above us. They’re moving over us in an arch, circling the planet. They have seen abysmal oceans and charred, scorched islands. They have seen how we destroyed the world. If I could see everything, as the clouds do, would I swirl around this remaining continent, still so full of color and life and seasons, wanting to protect it? Or would I just laugh at the futility of it all, and meander onward, down the earth’s sloping atmosphere?

Sometimes we don't know how afraid we are until we've reached a strange door and we don't know what will be on the other side.

We writers are resilient souls.

Set fire to the broken pieces; start anew.

Dystopian, by definition, promises a darker story.