And is it selfish of me to crave victory, or is it brave?

Then I realize what it is. It's him. Something about him makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or turn to liquid. Or burst into flames.

There are no safe rooms, no safe truths, no safe secrets to tell.

It doesn't prove anything except that you're bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sign of cowardice.

Hearing him talk about his mother, about his intact family, makes my chest hurt for a second, like someone pierced it with a needle.

Don’t worry about me handling the pain," I say. "I’ve had a lot of practice.

I notice, however, that Peter only pretends to inject himself—when he presses the plunger down, the fluid runs down his throat, and he wipes it casually with a sleeve. I wonder what it feels like to volunteer to forget everything.