Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

One day, Liesel.' he said, 'you'll be dying to kiss me.

Have faith, Ed, all right?' I search the coffee mug, but there's none in there.

If a guy like you can stand up and do what you did, then maybe everyone can. Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist in his face." (31.26)

She closes the door completely, and I crouch there. I allow myself to fall forward and rest my head on the door frame. My breath bleeds. My heartbeat drowns my ears.

People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.