There was a time when I believed I was the redeemed one, the boy borne safely home on the ebb of whatever freak tide carried Peter and Jamie away. Not any more. In ways too dark and crucial to be called metaphorical, I never left that wood.

Some people should never meet.

I had been right: freedom smelled like ozone and thunderstorms and gunpowder all at once, like snow and bonfires and cut grass, it tasted like seawater and oranges.

I hate nostalgia, it's laziness with prettier accessories.

Take what you want and pay for it, says God. You can have anything you want, as long as you accept that there is a price and you will have to pay it.

When we can't see a pattern, we fit pieces together until one takes shape, because we have to.

My memories of them had rubbed thin with overuse, worn to frail color transparencies flickering on the walls of my mind...