“Your eyes.”“What? What?” I scrubbed at them violently, horrified at the thought they might have those gross goopy things at the edges. Or were they even more bloodshot? I’d heard of that happening, where the whites ran with blood.“I think . . . the color’s changing.” He paused. “Is that even possible?”“Is that all? Now you’re the one scaring the crap out of me.”

“I don't know what happens to our consciousness when we're unwound," says Connor. "I don't even know when that consciousness starts. But I do know this." He pauses to make sure all of them are listening. "We have a right to our lives!"The kids go wild."We have a right to choose what happens to our bodies!"The cheers reach fever pitch."We deserve a world where both those things are possible— and it's our job to help make that world.”

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.“You. Then, and now. How beautiful youwere back then, and how even more beautiful you are now. How I wish I’d seen you through all those years, and how I’m counting myself as one lucky bastard that I got a second chance to have you in my life … and that you’re crazy enough to be mine.”

“The first thing we saw at the pet store was this scary white cat sitting on his own pedestal. He fluffed out his fur in a huff of attitude. His weird eyes were like lasers, way more expressive than human eyes. It felt like he could read my soul. His eyes were all, Yeah. I know you. I know everything you’re thinking. The cat was acting all exotic and important. Which I guess is what happens when you’re put on your own pedestal.”

“You’re still home?” I ask. “It’s not even curfew.”“Thought I’d grace you all with my presence.” She pauses to smile.”

“I thought English is a strange language. Now I think French is even more strange. In France, their fish is poisson, their bread is pain, and their pancake is crepe. Pain and poison and crap. That's what they have every day.”