The Wilds aren't safe anymore.

We’ll go.” Her voice is surprisingly deep and forceful. Set in her sunken, shipwreck face, her eyes burn like two smoldering coals. “We’ll fight.

Summer explodes into Portland. In early June the heat was there but not the color--the green were still pale and tentative, the morning had a biting coolness--but by the last week of school everything is Technicolor and splash, outrageous blue skies and purple thunderstorms and ink-black night skies and red flowers as brights as spots of blood.

It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.

People need other people to feel things for them," she said. "It gets lonely to feel things all by yourself.

If you’re smart, you care. And if you care, you love.

This is what happens when you try to help people. You get screwed.