When Iโm running, thereโs always this split second when the pain is ripping through me and I can hardly breathe and all I see is color and blurโand in that split second, right as the pain crests, and becomes too much, and thereโs a whiteness going through me, I see something to my left, a flicker of color [โฆ]โand I know then, too, that if I only turn my head heโll be there, laughing, watching me, and holding out his arms. I donโt ever turn my head to look, of course. But one day I will. One day I will, and heโll be back, and everything will be okay. And until then: I run.
Lauren OliverBut hope got in, no matter how hard and fast I tried to stomp it out. Like these tiny fire ants we used to get in Portland. No matter how fast you liked them, there were always more, a steady stream of them, resistant, ever-multiplying. Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.
Lauren Oliver