Why do people want to pretend that death is sleep? It isn't. It isn't.
Four!" I call out. Why am I calling a number? Oh yes. Because that's his name. — Tris.
For someone so small, you're heavy, Stiff," he mutters.
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.
And I provide much- needed eye candy.
It would be nice if life worked this way, stripping the dirt from our lives and sending us back out into the world clean. But some dirt is destined to lingered.