“He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words.”

“He still heard his mother's voice--"Davey"--rise like whisper-dust from unseen corners in the house, but it was no longer the only voice he heard. His ears were also filled with the voices of others--his father and Primrose and Refrigerator John and his grandmother. Of course, all of their words for a thousand years could not fill the hole left by his mother, but they could raise a loving fence around it so he didn't keep falling in.”

“That night, before he tried to sleep, Louie prayed. He had prayed only once before in his life, in childhood, when his mother was sick and he had been filled with a rushing fear that he would lose her. That night on the raft, in words composed in his head, never passing his lips, he pleaded for help.”

“Lost in the solitude of his immense power, he began to lose direction.”

“Is there anything I can say to convince you to stay out of this?” he pleaded, his voice taking on a softer tone. I shook my head. “Of course not.” “I didn’t think so,” he said miserably.”

“We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow,” he kissed her again, and pleaded, his voice deep and husky, “Just be with me today.”