If you actually succeed in creating a utopia, you've created a world without conflict, in which everything is perfect. And if there's no conflict, there are no stories worth telling - or reading!

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

I can’t leave now. I like her too much. There, I said it. But I won’t say it again.

Nothing else is all right.” His whisper tickles my cheek. “But we are.

If they told us what to believe, and we didn't come to it on our own, is it still true?

He pushes his hair, soaked from the snow, out of his eyes. "So what are we going to do, break a window? Look for a back door?" "I'm just going to walk in," I say. "I'm her son." "You also betrayed her and left the city when she forbade anyone from doing that," he says, "and she sent people after you to stop you. People with guns." "You can stay here if you want," I say. "Where the serum goes, I go," he says. "But if you get shot at, I'm going to grab it and run." "I don't expect anything more." He is a strange sort of person.

Change, like healing, takes time.