As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.

...one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.

They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.

Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.

If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.

I even move out onto the front porch and see my own limited view of the world. I want to take that world, and for the first time ever, I feel like I can do it. I’ve survived everything I’ve had to so far. I’m still standing here.

Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.