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“Zach's eyelids flutter and droop, his mind a pleasant jumble—things said tonight, last year, last month, things said in dreams. He sees Lev, Tasha, Rachel, and something he read earlier, what was it? In one of Rachel's books, circled in pen, a book of Natural History. 'Many birds and mammals, wolves in particular, have a—' What? Oh yes. '—a fateful preference for the ancestral nesting place.' And Rachel wrote in the margin: 'Ha ha ha! It has a strange attraction!”

“What I was really thinking,' resumes Rachel, 'is—well, that there's fate, you see. I don't dismiss it, I don't think it's idiotic. It's quite scientific, actually. What we become. Who we—meet, end up with,' she continues, flames in her cheeks. 'You think we would have met, no matter what? Even if I were some lushy? Some loon? Street kid?' 'You're laughing at me.' 'Just asking,' he says. 'Everyone has one person, I think. For life. That's all.”

“I need to tell you a story.' What about? Zachariah, Zachariah, my foundling boy. 'A boy. A boxer, a fighting man. A brother. No. About brothers, sisters. Foundlings, laid-in-the-streets. Fights, fighting. A boy, it all begins with the boy. My love. A wolf. Peter and the Wolf! Oh dear! I am very crazy! Let me—I must tell you this story.' Why? 'I'm frightened.' Of? 'Fractals. Patterns.' Ah, says the fish, looking at Rachel with his wise eyes. Chaos! 'Yes,' thinks Rachel. 'Chaos. Fearful symmetry.' Go home, says the fish, flipping over, flashing in light, and diving down into the great blue sea.”