“Yesterday, I cried.I came home, went straight to my room,sat on the edge of my bed,kicked off my shoes, unhooked my bra,and I had myself a good cry.”

“I kicked my shoes off, shuffled out of the black jeans and carted an armload of food into my bedroom. I switched the television on and crawled into bed with the channel changer. Do I know how to have a good time, or what?”

“I sat up in bed. My T-shirt was soaking wet. My pillow was wet. My hair was wet. And my room was sticky and humid.”

“I went into the room and sat next to Linus on the bed. I put my hand on his shoulder. I was always surprised at how soft other people were. I thought I felt his heartbeat, although it could have been my own.”

“My grandma came over yesterday, and I had just jumped out of the shower, so I answered the door in my towel. I know it was a little indecent, but I didn’t have time to dry off and change out of my wetsuit.”

“And even before my brain, lingering in consideration of when things had happened and of what they had looked like, had sufficient impressions to enable it to identify the room, it, my body, would recall from each room in succession what the bed was like, where the doors were, how daylight came in at the windows, whether there was a passage outside, what I had had in my mind when I went to sleep, and had found there when I awoke.”