So could we please not mob the three-thousand-plus-year-old reaper like tweens at a boy-band concert?

I was fine with that. The very idea of Death knowing my name made my skin crawl. Even if this particular Death was only one of many, and almost too pretty to look at.

She wasn't feeling nothing. She was feeling too much. She was blocking it all out. That was a survival skill, and her still-beating heart was proof that it worked.

Uh, yeah, I do. The scythe was a little tricky at first, but—much like golf—turns out it’s all in the swing.

Whatever your weakness, there’s a hellion to exploit it.

There were a million What Ifs that could have stopped the whole thing. A million things I wished I'd done differently. But in the end, I was left with what actually happened. With my mistakes and his.

I'm searching for a shred of humanity in that shriveled tangle of arteries you call a heart.