A man is capable of thought. A crowd is not.

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere in between.

I don't know how much time passes with us just lying there, just feeling that the other is really there, really true, really alive, feeling the safety of him, his weight against mine, the roughness of his fingers touching my face, his warmth and his smell and the dustiness of his clothes, and we barely speak.

A monster, I think, remembering what Ben told me once. War makes Monsters of Men.

Now that I've seen her, I can't stop seeing her.

Viola blows out a thoughtful air. "My dad used to say, 'There's only forward, Vi, only outward and up.'" "There's only forward," I repeat. "Outward and up," she says.

And I know I’ve lost. Everything is lost. Everything is over. “As the newly appointed President of this fair planet of ours,” the Mayor says, holding out his hands as if to show me the world for the first time,” let me be the very first to welcome you to its new capital city.” “Todd?” Viola whispers, her eyes closed. I hold her tightly to me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her. “I’m so sorry.” We’ve run right into a trap. We’ve run right off the end of the world. “Welcome,” says the Mayor,” to the New Prentisstown.