“I'm the last of the mad ones.”

“I'm Keith," he said, "and you're . . . clearly mad, but what's your name?”

“I like you because you were mad. And you're pretty. And pretty sane for a mad person.”

“Salt. Wound. Together at last.”

“It rang and it rand and it rang. I looked at the screen one last time, then at Stuart, and then I reached my arm back and threw the phone as hard as I could (sadly, not that far), and it vanished into the snow. The eight-year-olds, who were truly fascinated with our every move at this point, chased after it. 'Lost it,' I said. 'Whoops.”

“One question," I said. "Did you tell me all that because you think I'm going to die?""No," he said. "It's because you're doing something brave, and I felt I should too.""I'll take that as a yes," I said.”

“It took a lot of women like that, a lot of women who said "I'm not going to do what you expect me to do, because you have no idea what I'm capable of. I'm going to get dirty and use tools and live the way I want" to move the world forward.”