Once Mo had closed the gates, he returned to his little stone hut, and his half-eaten sandwich of butter and canned sardines, and his mug of thick hot chocolate, which every night he poured carefully into a thermos labeled COFFEE.

Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.

Is this freedom? Is it happiness? I don't know. I don't care anymore. It is different--it is being alive.

I love you. They can't take it away.

He looked at me like I was beautiful.

Alex is dead, do you hear me? All of that-what we felt, what it meant- that's done now, okay? Buried. Blown away.

i suppose that's the secret, if you're ever wishing for things to back the way they were. You just have to look up.