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“This is, after all, Nova’s computer. Yet when he opens the browser (feeling just a pinch of guilt), it automatically goes to a photo site, and suddenly their faces are everywhere, gazing back at him from sunnier times. Mason shrinks away, avoiding both sets of eyes. Nova, the masochist. It would have been better if they hadn’t had that in common.”

“He pictures, ludicrously, a high-speed chase through the desert: he and Rio and Whale speeding towards the Polaris camp, with Juno in his probably stolen Fauxcedes barreling after them. Whale barks out the window as they leap over hillocks and take a hard turn into the scrub, howling a devil-may-care, Fuck you!”

“Pink-rimmed, silver clouds billowing across a purple sunset, bleeding into a night sky flecked with glow-in-the-dark stars and a great, white moon—her childhood bedroom, back in Blackpines. Her mother had painted a princess, sitting in the moon’s crescent curve, her curly black hair catching stardust. The princess looked like her.”

“Jude was not human before she met Maya. She was a changeling, a facsimile: something that only ever looked human, but never knew what human felt like. So, of course, Maya ruined her. She took Jude’s hollow bones and filled them with thoughts and emotions like lead, so that she fell down to earth—so that she couldn’t fly away anymore.”

“And then they are falling, their hair streaming, the dog wailing against her throat. Jude’s laugh is as sharp and delirious as wind pummeling the splintered lines of broken glass. It’s a terrible sound. The mad smile on her face, the wide stretch of her lids around her eyes, is unpleasant, and yet Maya finds herself mirroring the expression—a shriek of terrified joy breaking from her throat as they hit the water.”

“Harper smiles just a little. “You know...” Oren tilts his head. “Um, never mind.” “Man, don’t do that. It’s the worst.” Harper shakes his head, cheeks turning hot. He rubs his face against his shoulder. “Just pointless, sentimental what-ifs.” “What-ifs can be like wishes. You don’t have to squash them.”

“Nova returns, but he won’t meet anyone’s eye, smiling with a giddy, unhinged expression when spoken to. Mason avoids him, overcome by fear or guilt—something heavy that makes itself apparent in how he slinks around, avoiding notice. Jude scrambles nearly an entire carton of eggs, which no one but she and Harper eat, and then takes a long shower that uses up all the hot water.”

“I don’t have any money,” he tells her. “I know,” she replies, leaning over and unearthing a wallet. “But I found some.” “‘Found.’” She pulls out a card and puts the green leather square onto the console. The edge is riddled with tooth marks, and Nova frowns. “That’s Harper’s.” “I’ll buy him a present. He won’t mind.”

“It was a scent that suggested someone more Minotaur than Theseus, more Grendel than Beowulf, and Nova wanted to go deeper into the monster’s cave. He couldn’t find anything within him that cared whether he came out or not, as long as he found his way to its deepest, darkest depths.”

“This mysterious, celestial painter has put mystery into everything: the line of mountains in the distance, the river of asphalt running beyond the camp, even the patches of scrub pocking the ground. These are left navy, frosted with moonlight, but never given enough definition to look like plants, and so instead they give Beni the impression of crouching things—the kinds of things that wait until all the people have gone to sleep to uncurl from the earth and walk the land.”

“Its wings flicker white, and in the brief soar between roof and pump, the sun catches in its feathers, revealing rainbows floating atop the black and blue fibers. The colors roll down its body like the muscle in a great predator’s shoulders, and yet the lift of its wings and kite-like flicker of its long tail are lighter than air.”

“Pink electricity snakes out from her fingertips, jumping from the guitar and sending rainbow-hued sparks floating to the ceiling. She leans her hand to the strings and feels the chunky, percussive roar of the palm mute rumble through the amps. It gnaws at her bones, shakes her blood in her veins like some kind of fantastic, terrible cocktail of sound and iron, and she is so desperately happy.”

“Do dogs dream?” she asks the air, because Yunior doesn’t seem to be paying attention. “Do you dream about Nova?” The dog pauses, wagging his tail with greater force. “Nova. Nova, Nova, Nova.” Yunior turns, wiggling all over, and leans low on his front legs, yapping. “Sorry. No Nova here. I’d keep him in my pocket, but he’s a little too big. Only just, but still.”

“Someone might like you, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to be there for you. They can love hanging out with you at happy hour, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to understand if you call them at two in the morning. In fact, the more people like you, the more likely they are to want you to be nothing except the things they like about you. But most people like being liked, so when they feel someone wants them around—and people will want you around if you’re giving them something—they try to please that person. They bend over backwards. You end up used, and used is not loved. Do you get that? Nobody has a lot of friends.”

“No one ever expects Maya. She’s like a suckerpunch personified. If you fool yourself into thinking she isn’t paying attention, or that she’s too shy or introverted to disagree with you, she will put you in your place. I like that about her, though. She’s not a mean or a hard person, but she maintains her boundaries. I’ve never been good about that. My boundaries get trampled, and I become ugly and mean. I act like someone else entirely, and I— Well, anyway, she’s everything you see and everything you don’t.”

“He passes the cigarette, grunting softly and pretending to be very interested in the skeleton eavesdropping on their heart-to-heart. She softly slaps his shoulder. “Don’t make those caveman sounds at me. You know I’m right.” “Yeah, but have you ever called your mama out on anything?” “Never had to. She’s always been right,” she says, squaring her shoulders and smiling slyly. He laughs.”

“That depends on how trouble is approached. We came to you nice and slow, and voilà: you can trick nearly anyone into thinking you’re domesticated.” “Don’t talk about me like a dog,” he warns. “Besides which, you forget that I’m first and foremost a scholar.” “Ah, I see. You’re utilizing a rare branch of philosophy: the one founded on lying to yourself because it’s convenient.”