But, somehow, Wilf knows. Somehow, Wilf always knows.
And it hurts her, but it's an okay hurt, but it hurts still, but it's good, but it hurts.
Guessing a thing ain't knowing a thing.
We run down the right fork, Manchee at our heels, the night and a dusty road stretching out in front of us, an army and a disaster behind us, me and Viola, running side by side.
A monster, I think, remembering what Ben told me once. War makes Monsters of Men.
Stories are the wildest things of all. Stories chase and bite and hunt.