I think he's beginning to understand, and understanding is a horrible thing.

Times like this, when she slips her hand into mine and holds on tight, and our husband becomes just a shadow in the doorway.

It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.

I see an ocean that’s spilled out of a wineglass, its body clear and sparkling and folding over itself. I see a ribbon of sand.

I figured it out eventually," she says. She's sitting on the edge of the gurney again; her features slowly materialize as my vision clears. "It's momentum." "What?" I whisper. The feeling returning to my lips, spreading out to my fingertips and toes. "Momentum," she repeats. "You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have to run.

Home?' I say. It's a word that can mean anywhere and nowhere.

It's best to let her go," he says. No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.