That was what her parents did not understand—and had never understood—about stories. Liza told herself storied as though she was weaving and knotting an endless rope. Then, no matter how dark or terrible the pit she found herself in, she could pull herself out, inch by inch and hand over hand, on the long rope of stories.

And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.

He who leaps for the sky may fall, it's true. But he may also fly.

I love you. Remember. And someday, I will find you again.

I've been so used to thinking of what the borders are keeping out that I haven't considered that they're also penning us in.

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

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