“Until the battle with the Revanche he hadn’t thought he would ever tire of gazing at the horizon. Only since then had he noticed that the view was . . . empty.”

“Chingón hadn’t survived a thousand battles by being stupid. He had survived them by exploding people.”

“I’d thought he was stars and then I’d thought he was a fox. I had thought I’d been alone, but I hadn’t.”

“Had he learned - would he ever learn - to discard the thoughts he could not use?”

“It hardly mattered. She was tired of waiting for him to acknowledge who he was. Tired of donning a false mask of gaiety when she was so much more—felt so much more—beneath. No one had ever noticed her mask. No one but him. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t make the first move, then damn it, she would.”

“She played with her eyes closed. He closed his own eyes, joining her in the darkness. She had said the song depicted a battle, but nothing of the sort came to mind, no lofty images of horses and banners waving or battalions clashing over hills. Only darkness and a pure sound that filled him, creeping into spaces he hadn’t known were empty.”