Morning," I say. "Shh," she says. "If you don't acknowledge it, maybe it will go away.

She is well practiced in the art of losing herself.

There is a reason you don’t know all the things I know. -Marcus Eaton

Beatrice," she says. "Beatrice, we have to run." She pulls my arm across her shoulders and hauls me to my feet. She is dressed like my mother and she looks like my mother, but she is holding a gun, and the determined look in her eyes is unfamiliar to me.

So how can I hold Tobias’s desperation against him, like I’m better than him, like I’ve never let my own brokenness blind me?

Who cares about pretty? I'm going for noticeable.

I also don't believe that whatever come after life depends on my correctly reciting a list of my transgressions-that sounds too much like an Erudite afterlife to me, all accuracy and no feeling.