“I didn't know how to say goodbye. Words were stupid. They said so little. Yet they opened up holes you could fall into and never climb out of again.”

“You *are* my family,' he said. The tears almost started up again. Those four little words meant so much to me - which was stupid, really. They were just words. But they were words I'd been wanting to hear, wanting to believe. *You are my family*.”

“Books fall open, you fall in. When you climb out again, you're a bit larger than you used to be.”

“Fine," he repeated, and I wondered why it was I kept coming back to this, again and again, a word that you said when someone asked how you were but didn't really care to know the truth.”

“So what if I don't learn algebra?''Someday schools will be open again,' Mom said. 'Things will be normal. You need to do your work now for when that happens.''That's never going to happen,' Jon said. 'And even if schools do open up somewhere, they're not going to open up here. There aren't enough people left.' 'We don't know how many people are like us, holed up, making do until times get better.''I bet whoever they are, they aren't studying algebra,' Jon said.”

“Those times you caught them out and showed them up -- they learned how stupid they are. But now you'll never hear the little song of their purring throats, and you'll never know what they think, when you say hello.”