I decide to do what I always do when I'm not sure what's going on: I act like everyone else.

What's worse: to be idle while someone dies, or to be exiled and empty-handed?

I used to think that when people fell in love, they just landed where they landed, and they had no choice in the matter afterward. And maybe that's true of beginnings, but it's not true of this, now.

My Tris should look pale and small--she is pale and small, after all--but instead the room is full of her.

Someone shouts, "Enough!" and I think too much and nothing at all.

I laugh, mirthless, a mad laugh. I savor the scowl on her face, the hate in her eyes. She was like a machine; she was cold and emotionless, bound by logic alone. And I broke her.

You nearly died today,' he says. 'I almost shot you. Why didn't you shoot me, Tris?' 'I couldn't do that,' I say. 'It would have been like shooting myself.' He looks pained and leans closer to me, so his lips brush mine when he speaks.