it occurs to me that there is so much I never knew about him--his past, his role in the resistance, what his life was like in the Wilds, before he came to Portland, and I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.

Quiet through the grave go I; or else beneath the graves I lie

I didn’t know it would be like this,” he says in a whisper. And then: “I’m scared.

You don't reach points in life at which everything is sorted out for us. I believe in endings that should suggest our stories always continue.

He’s speaking in the tone of voice that everyone uses when they’re about to break you apart. Gentle—kind, even—like they can make the news sound better just by speaking in a lullaby voice.

Welcome to the free world. We give people the power to choose. They can even choose the wrong thing. Beautiful, isn't it?

This is pretty much the answer to every problem you encounter in suburbia: plant a tree, and hope you don't see anyone's privates.