And if I have to die trying, I will get out of here.

So how long do you think it’ll be?” he says. “Before the next hurricane comes along to take you home.” “Can I tell you my biggest fear?” I say. “Yes. Tell me.” “That it will be a very windless four years.

You’re insane, you know that?” he says. “It’s the only thing keeping me afloat,” I say.

I shake my head, watching snow tumble and swirl from an all-white sky. The world seems so clean if you only look up

I wanted to be rid of him," he says. He raises my chin with his thumb. "But not if it meant being rid of you. I climbed in beside you, and you put your head in my lap. You can't think I would have left you like that." "Look what it got you," I say. "Tea in bed and you here in front of me," he says. "It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.

Maybe hope isn't the most dangerous thing a person can have. Maybe love is.

I wish I had a memory of that first violent shove, the shock of cold air, the sting of oxygen into new lungs. Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.