“Traffic's not too bad on Sheridan, and I'm cornering the car like it's the Indy 500, and we're listening to my favorite NMH song, "Holland, 1945," and then onto Lake Shore Drive, the waves of Lake Michigan crashing against the boulders by the Drive, the windows cracked to get the car to defrost, the dirty, bracing, cold air rushing in, and I love the way Chicago smells—Chicago is brackish lake water and soot and sweat and grease and I love it, and I love this song, and Tiny's saying I love this song, and he's got the visor down so he can muss up his hair a little more expertly.”

“I'm serious. You know that feeling when you're driving in the car and a song you really love comes on the radio and the window is down and you can go a little faster than you should and you feel like everything is yours and the world is beautiful and you're free? That's how I feel when he looks at me.”

“I can never drive my car over a bridge without thinking of suicide.I can never look at a lake or an ocean without thinking of suicide.”

“I brush her hair out of her eyes and run my finger along the edge of her face. "I love you, Lake.""Say it again," she says.I kiss her forehead and repeat what I said. "I love you, Lake.""One more time.""I." I kiss her lips. "And love." I kiss them again. "And you.""I love you, too.”

“I love you, Lake," he smiles as he presses his forehead against mine. "You deserve to come first.”

“And I say also this. I do not think the forest would be so bright, nor the water so warm, nor love so sweet, if there were no danger in the lakes.”