Out of my peripheral vision, I see Four shove the door open and walk out. Apparently this fight isn't interesting enough for him. Or maybe he's going to figure out why everything's spinning like a top, and I don't blame him; I want to know the answer too.

Sometimes,” he says, sliding his arm across my shoulders, “people just want to be happy, even if it’s not real.

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

A brave man acknowledges the strength of others.

Four!" I call out. Why am I calling a number? Oh yes. Because that's his name. — Tris.

His fingers slide into my hair, and I hold on to his arms to stay steady as we press together like two blades at a stalemate. He is stronger than anyone I know, and warmer than anyone else realizes; he is a secret that I have kept, and will keep for the rest of my life.

If I let a little of the emotion out, all of it will come out, and it will never end.