My sweat smells like peanut-butter.

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.

The oversized chairs are white; the walls, covered with occasional landscape paintings, are white; and the plush carpet is the whitest of all. I'm insanely glad I didn't bring a cup of grape juice with me.

My eyes are bright, my hair has come loose from its ribbon, and Stella's scarf is waving around my neck. But that's not what I see when I look at the picture. I see three unlikely friends holding hands. And Ryan, Kenny, and Melanie are standing behind us, rapt. And in the sky above us, I see a miracle.

How can you, of all people, say everything will be alright?" He has a point. I consider my answer. "Well, it's better than saying 'Keep on crying, I'm sure things will just get worse,' right?

I'm sorry for the randomness of what I wrote, Mr. Oswald. There's been a lot to absorb.' Without looking up, he says, 'Never apologize for writing your truth, Mr. Fink. There are no right or wrong answers.

Sometimes the best things look the strangest.