She was battered and beaten up, and not smiling this time. Liesel could see it on her face. Blood leaked from her nose and licked at her lips. Her eyes had blackened. Cuts had opened up and a series of wounds were rising to the surface of her skin. All from the words. From Liesel's words.

How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.

It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it has pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins. Trees wore blankets of ice. As you may expect, someone has died.

The beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That's what I love about being a writer of novels.

A DEFINITION NOT FOUND IN THE DICTIONARY Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children

No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.

When he moves, a streetlight stabs him, and the words flow out like blood.