He moves his thumb in a slow circle over the back of my hand. It is meant to comfort me, but it frustrates me instead. I need to talk to him. I need to look at him.

I have to face the fear. I have to take control of the situation and find a way to make it less frightening.

I am afraid of her, afraid of what she says-and thrilled by it too, because it means I don't have to accept that I am smaller than I once believed.

Resisting is worth doing.

Grabbing hold of facts in the midst of shock is very Erudite of him.

She has been to the compound before. She remembered this hallway. She knows about the initiation process. My mother was Dauntless.

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.