No more, no less. I'm an idiot. I really need to let this crush go.

I drop the other Chest to the ground in shock. "What number are you? I'm Four." He squints at me and then offers his hand. "I'm Nine. Good job staying alive, Number Four.

My breathing is controlled, but all the fear and anger within me. Fear is too simple a word. Terror. That's what I feel.

The key to change is letting go of the fear.

I am not who you thik I am,' I say. 'Who are you?' 'I am number Four.

That's another one of Sandor's rules for hiding in plain sight: always appear to be weaker than I actually am. Never push it.

If you ever know a man who tries to drown his sorrows, kindly inform him his sorrows know how to swim.