Despite my dad's assurances I was strangely nervous my stomach tight ever since we'd hung up. Maybe Deb had picked up on this and it was why she'd pretty much talked nonstop since I'd approached her and asked for a ride. I'd barely had time to explain the situation before she had launched into a dozen stories to illustrate the point that Things Happened But People Were Okay in the End.

Are those the only options? Nothing or forever?

Some things are meant to be broken. Imperfect. Chaotic.

I think my biggest problem, though, at least in drafts, is not repeating myself. After eight books I get worried that a character or piece of dialog might be too much like something I've already done. So it's a challenge to keep it fresh.

I'd chosen instead to just change my route, go miles out of the way, as if avoiding it would make it go away once and for all.

It was like when you ripped a piece of paper into two: no matter how you tried, the seams never fit exactly right again.

Everything, in the end, comes down to timing. One second, one minute, one hour could make all the difference.