Maybe you don't have to remember something for it to be true. For it to exist.

With the notebook resting ominuslously on Janie's bed, Janie procrastinates. Does her homework first. And pours herself a bowl of ceral. Breakfast - one of the five most important meals of the day. Not to be skipped.

If you don't want me to see, I guess, don't sleep in the same room as me." He looks at her with a sly smile. "But I'm known for sleeping in school. It's my shtick.

And he's pressing into her and she into him, bodies shivering, like they are two scared, lost children, starving, starving to be touched, to be held, by someone, anyone, the first one they can find who seems familiar enough, safe enough, strong enough to rescue them. They breathe, heavy. Hard. Their fingers strain at cotton. And then they slow down. Stop. Hold. Rest. Before one of them, or both, begins to sob. Before they break another piece that needs to be fixed.

She sits in the driveway, freezing, for thirty-six minutes. Arguing with herself. Because she thinks she's in love with him too. And there are two ways she can be a fool in love right now. She chooses the harder one. And knocks on the door.

With practice, you will master your own dreams.

Whatever I want,' he says. 'Yes.' 'I'm afraid you haven't been privy to that dream yet.