Hearing him talk about his mother, about his intact family, makes my chest hurt for a second, like someone pierced it with a needle.

You are holding a loaded gun, you idiot. Act like it.

But there's so much that was a lie, it's hard to figure out what was true, what was real, what matters.

All that land is filled with people, every one of them different, and the things they do to each other matter.

How have I never realized before that for all the strong, kind parts of him, there are also hurting, broken parts?

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 figured I would shoot the bullets out of my nostrils, so I left [the gun] upstairs.