You won," Four mutters. "Stop." I wipe the sweat from my forehead. He stares at me. His eyes are too wide; they look alarmed.

In the days that follow, it's movement, not stillness, that helps to keep the grief at bay.

I have to admit that Christina is good—though I don’t like giving credit to Candor smart-mouths—and so is Peter—though I don’t like giving credit to future psychopaths.

Peace is restrained; this is free.

It's not often real that you encounter the real person behind a good-natured mask, the darkest part of someone. It's not comfortable what you do.

I forget that he is another person; instead it feels like he is another part of me, just as essential as a heart or an eye or an arm.

You know, there's a word for big, strong men who attack women, and it's coward.