Sublime

could only have come from someone who had been chronically ill and understood the indignities of hospital life.

in early childhood, the daughter of some obscure deacon, who grew up in the rich house of her benefactress,

Maxine Tarnow,

Phoebe was mortified by her inability to speak. Her heartbeat was stampeding out of control. “Mama isn’t used to talking to grown-ups,” Justin said. “She likes children better.” “I’m very childlike,” the man said promptly. “Ask anyone around here.”

“Children aren’t coloring books. You don’t get to fill them with your favorite colors.”

And for a whole day or more, Furlong had gone around feeling a foot taller, believing, in his heart, that he mattered as much as any other child.