Good words

He was no older than the rest of them judging by his face, but his drawl suggested a decadent, world-weary forty-year-old.

Now the years were in her, bent like a soft nail, and there was just no getting them out.

Adina realizes friendships are reincarnations.

Andrew was the worst about it, the one who clammed up or outright lied so people would stop trying to pry apart his bones and see why he was riddled with peculiar agonies.

She struggled, she was struggling, and it felt real, more real than anything she’d experienced since she’d truly been alive, and for that she wondered at the irony. Because surely she was dying, wasn’t she? Surely only death could feel like this, like pain and panic and desperation alike, and surely only her death would give her this sense of

Her eyes were bloodshot, and Abbott thought she’d either been recently smoking weed or recently crying, though he knew from personal experience that it was possible to do both simultaneously.

Toni has stopped trying to tame her thick, screaming hair and it has repaid her by arcing around her face in a way that gives her chin narrative.

he loved her the way a bird-watcher’s heart leaps when he hears the call of the roseate spoonbill, a fluffy pink wader, calling its lilting coo-coo from the mangroves.

“Old people know things we don’t because long ago, they didn’t listen to their elders either,” Quil said as they ducked into a darkened lean-to filled with moldering hay. “It’s tradition.”