“She points at my chest.“And much more interestingly, what’s that?”“Blood,” I say.She gets her camera out.”

“The body is soft, beautiful, vulnerable. It’s easy to threaten it. It’s easy to harm it. It takes next to nothing to cause pain, to draw blood, to break bones. Takes next to nothing to blast a body to bits. It’s much harder to protect it, she says, and much more important.”

“She finds tales everywhere, in grains of sand she picks up from the garden, in puffs of smoke that drift out from the chimneys of the village, in fragments of smooth timber or glass in the jetsam. She will ask them, "Where did you come from? How did you get here?" And they will answer her in voices very like her own, but with new lilts and squeaks and splashes in them that show they are their own.”

“Well, well,” she murmurs as I back away.She makes a rectangle with her index fingers and thumbs and looks at my skin through it.“You’re right,” she says. “The boy’s a living work of art.”

“I think of him dreaming of being married to Kim and of tractors and harvesters and conferences in nice country hotels while my dreams are filled with war, with snakes, with bloody wounds, disaster and death. I keep feeling blood trickling over my skin.”

“...maybe one day we all had wings and one day we'll all have wings again." "D'you think the baby had wings?""Oh, I'm sure that one had wings. Just got to take one look at her. Sometimes I think she's never quite left Heaven and never quite made it all the way here to Earth."She smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. "Maybe that's why she has such trouble staying here," she said.”

“Time’s Flying,” said Dad. He Smiled. He pointed to the air. “There it is, flying past! Catch it!” And he jumped, and caught Time in his hands, and showed it to Lizzie. She took it from him, and threw it up again.“There it goes,” she called. “Bye-bye. Bye-bye, Time!”