With his back to us, Sean tugs the halter from the mare's head. She kicks out, but he steps out of the way as if it were nothing at all. With a shake of her mane, she leaps mightily into the water. For a moment she struggles over the waves, and then she is swimming. Just a wild black horse in a deep blue sea full of the ashes of other dead boys.

I'd always liked jogging because it was a place to think.

I’m not looking for self-control.

He was uncomfortable with the idea that use might not like him.

As always, there was an all-American war hero look to him, coded in his tousled brown hair, his summer-narrowed hazel eyes, the straight nose that ancient Anglo-Saxons had graciously passed on to him. Everything about him suggested valor and power and a firm handshake.

The boy had my wolf's eyes.

sloughing my skin / escaping it's grip / stripped of my wit / it hurts to be me .