“Alan lowered the lamp flame until there was only a glimmer of light in the room. His skin burned with fever as he climbed into bed beside Huiann. He felt like a groom on his wedding night except, he reminded himself, there would be no copulation. None. Not tonight.”

“He liked having the boy there beside him. Like some bright flame of life still burning bright beside the spent lamp of his own spirit.”

“When he left her room tonight, she wanted his preference to be only her. His hands would only want her skin. He'd only fit perfectly with Severine.”

“Eventually, he found the bed too comfortable for his state of mind, so he lay down on his back, his legs sprawled across the carpet. He anagrammed "yrs forever" until he found one he liked: sorry fever. And then he lay there in his fever of sorry and repeated the now memorized note in his head and wanted do cry, but instead he only felt this aching behind his solar plexus. Crying adds something: crying is you, plus tears. But the feeling Colin had was some horrible opposite of crying. It was you, minus something. He kept thinking about one word - forever - and felt the burning ache just beneath his rib cage.It hurt like the worst ass-kicking he'd ever gotten. And he'd gotten plenty.”

“His room was dark until he switched on his desk lamp. I sat on the floor next to his bed and watched him counting clothes and considering shoes. He seemed so boyish right then—like he wished his mom would just come in and pack for him. I couldn’t possibly love him any more than I did at that moment.”

“In the weak light of the lonely lamp, he held onto her, for a solid minute, his head buried in her neck as if he needed her. Just like the night in the hotel room when he pressed his forehead to hers and damn near liquefied her heart.”