Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.

The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this.

I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.

She was a girl with a mountain to climb.

You're far from this. This story is just another few hundred pages of your mind.

I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.

She looks at the swings, and I can see she’s imagining what they’d look like if the kids weren’t there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them. I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.