I don't talk about my books while I'm writing them: not even my husband knows what a novel's about until it's done.

I was woundering what he would say, what word could sum me up right then, when i saw the lights come across his face, blaringly yellow, and suddenly he was brighter, and brighter, and i asked him what was happening, what was wrong. I remember only that light, so strong it spilled across my shoulders, and lit up his face, and how scared he looked as something big and loud hit my door, sending glass shattering across me, little sparks catching the light like diamonds, as they fell, with me, into the dark.

But I'd long ago learned not to be picky in farewells. They weren't guaranteed or promised. You were lucky, more than blessed, if you got a good-bye at all.

There were so many levels to the unknown, from safe to dangerous to outright nebulous, scariest of all.

There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.

If nothing else, now we knew where to find each other, even if only time would tell if either of us would ever come looking.

It sounded stupid, but of course everything does when you're just getting the bare bones facts, only the basics.