Stories are the things that allow us to persuade each other that we're human.

You see with your eyes. This means you can be misled by charm, by outward appearance. By webs of glamour, by surface pretences. I do not see with my eyes. I see good and I see evil. Nothing else.

A flash of resentment. It's hard enough being alive, trying to survive in the world and find your place in it, to do the things you need to do to get by, without wondering if the thing you just did, whatever it was, was worth someone having...if not died, then having given up her life. It wasn't fair. "Life's not fair," said Ginnie, as if I had spoken aloud.

Chicago happened slowly, like a migraine.

I'm going to go home. Everything is going to be normal again. Boring again. Wonderful again.

I knew enough about adults to know that if did tell them what had happened, I would not be believed. Adults rarely seemed to believe me when I told the truth anyway.

Trees there were, old as trees can be, huge and grasping with hearts black as sin. Strange trees that some said walked in the night.