“If you think a story can be like a kind of cement, the sloppy kind that you put between bricks, the kind that looks like cake frosting before it dries hard, then maybe I thought it would be possible to use what Toby had to hold Finn together, to keep him here with me a little bit longer.”

“You think you can uncuff me now?" "Sorry, man, I have orders not to do that. Madison said she would bring me a huge slice of cake if I left you cuffed." "You're leaving me like this for cake?" he asked dumbfounded that cake held that kind of power over a boy. He wondered if it was like bloodlust.”

“I came to a sketch where the space between my arm and Greta’s arm, the shape of the place between us, had been darkened in. The negative space. That’s what Finn called it. He was always trying to get me to understand negative space. And I did. I could understand what he was saying, but it didn’t come naturally to me. I had to be reminded to look for it. To see the stuff that’s there but not there. In this sketch, Finn had colored in the negative space, and I saw that it made a shape that looked like a dog’s head. Or, no—of course, it was a wolf’s head, tilted up, mouth open and howling. It wasn’t obvious or anything. Negative space was kind of like constellations. The kind of thing that had to be brought to your attention. But the way Finn did it was so skillful. It was all in the way Greta’s sleeve draped and the way my shoulder angled in. So perfect. It was almost painful to look at that negative space, because it was so smart. So exactly the kind of thing Finn would think of. I touched my finger to the rough pencil lines, and I wished I could let Finn know that I saw what he’d done. That I knew he’d put that secret animal right between Greta and me.”

“The kiss was flight, the kind of kiss that had magic I hadn’t known existed. Or maybe it was the kind of kiss that I had known long before but had all but forgotten, like the scent of roses once they’re no longer in bloom.”

“Know the story before you fall in love with your first sentence. If you don’t know the story before you begin the story, what kind of a storyteller are you? Just an ordinary kind, just a mediocre kind – making it up as you go along, like a common liar.”

“I know I had that punch comin’ to me. I owed you one. No hard feelings, sugar.” “Speak for yourself.” Pia’s words were coated in frost. “I’ve all kinds of hard feelings going on over here.”