I wish we were alone,” he says. “I almost always wish that,” I say.

I want to break something, or hit something, but I am afraid to move, so I start crying instead.

Resisting is worth doing.

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.

I should probably be afraid. But instead a hysterical laugh bubbles inside me, because I just remembered something: Maybe I can’t hold a gun. But I have a knife in my back pocket.

Who cares about everyone? What about me?

I think they're going to force us to eat lots of cake and then take an unreasonably long nap.