“Three generations of women out on the front porch, four counting little Emily, trying to put words around a past and a future that could never be explained.”

“Pia counted through the burp. “… two ten thousand, three ten thousand, four – oop, you win.” She stared at the little faerie in awe. “Where did you put all that air?”

“Everywhere, women gathered in knots, huddled in groups on front porches, on sidewalks, even in the middle of the streets, telling each other that no news is good news, trying to comfort each other, trying to present a brave appearance.”

“The saddest thing is a little girl who is told by her own mother and father that she will never be pretty.And then they open the front door, and on the porch is a little white suitcase, with all of her things in it.”

“This is one of those things that you can never explain to anyone; that's what I want to explain - one of those free-association moments with connections that dissolve when you start to try to put them into words.”

“By now, all three Brannick women—all four, if you counted Mom—were staring at me. Man, what had that piney-tasting stuff been? The Brannick version of Red Bull?”