Dying is one of those things that can’t be fixed. Not by talking about it, not with all the brain surge in the world.

When the term "machine gun" enters common parlance, the word "machine" becomes much more sinister.

As a bio major, I figured "free will" meant chemicals in your brain telling you what to do, the molecules bouncing around in a way that felt like choosing but was actually the dance of little gears--neurons and hormones bubbling up into decisions like clockwork. You don't use your body; it uses you.

Which was worse: a friend with brain damage, or one who despised you?

What did a happy ending even mean in real life, anyway? In stories you simply said, 'They lived happily ever after,' and that was it. But in real life people had to keep on living, day after day, year after year.

That letter was your whole future, you daft prince." "It was my past. I lost that the night my parents died. But I found you, Deryn. Maybe I wasn't meant to end the war, but I was meant to find you. I know that. You've saved me from having any reason to keep going." "We save each other. That's how it works.

It's just been a long week, that's all." "It's monday night, Jess." "My point exactly.