Middlegame

You can't skip to the end of the story just because you're tired of being in the middle. You'd never survive.

Words can be whispered bullet-quick when no one's looking, and words don't leave blood or bruises behind. Words disappear without a trace. That's what makes them so powerful. That's what makes them so important. That's what makes them hurt so much.

Their past is littered with the unburied bodies of the people they chose never to become.

People who say “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” don’t understand how words can be stones, hard and sharp-edged and dangerous and capable of doing so much more harm than anything physical.

Numbers are simple, obedient things, as long as you understand the rules they live by. Words are trickier. They twist and bite and require too much attention.

Time is a concept invented by men who didn’t want everything to keep happening at once. Time is irrelevant.

Hummingbird girl, running on caffeine and borrowed energy. He’s seen what happens when that energy runs out. He never wants to see it again.

This has never been about good and evil. This is about power. Who has it, who doesn't. Who knows how to use it.

Magic doesn't have to be flashy and huge. Sometimes it's the subtle things that are the most effective of all.

They were supposed to grow up with their hands in each other’s pockets, compensating for one another’s weaknesses, encouraging one another’s strengths.

The mind is an imperfect engine, and it does what it will with the information it receives.

Roller coasters are like math you can ride.

He likes cats. They have their own agenda, and he respects that.

Words disappear without a trace. That’s what makes them so powerful. That’s what makes them so important. That’s what makes them hurt so much.

Dodger,” he whispers. “Don’t die. This is an order. This is a command. This is an adjuration. Do whatever you have to do, break whatever you have to break, but don’t you die. This is an order. This is—” This is her eyes opening, pupils reduced to black pinpricks against the gray of her irises, until she looks like she’s suffered a massive opiate overdose. This is gold sparking in the gray, brief and bright, as the Impossible City tries to call her home. He feels the gold in his own bones respond, reaching for the gold in Dodger’s, yearning to reunite.

Color is a kind of magic. He hopes people who have it understand that, and don't take it for granted.

Someone made us. Someone made us, and then they separated us because we were dangerous when we were together.

Dating Erin would be sort of like dating a blender. Sure, it makes great smoothies, but one day you’re going to be minding your own business and it’s going to switch on and remove your hand.

She’s lonely, and she’s one of those kids for whom loneliness has become a sort of fearless propulsion, forcing her forward at an ever-accelerating pace, searching for a way to make the loneliness stop.

If Dodger were awake, she’d happily tell him exactly how much of her blood is on the floor. She’d look at the mess around them. She’d calculate the surface area and volume of the liquid as easily as taking a breath, and she’d turn it into a concrete number, something accurate to the quarter ounce. She’d think she was being comforting, even if the number she came up with meant “I’m leaving you.” Even if it meant “there is no coming back from this.” Even if it meant goodbye.

Time is a funny thing; it doesn’t forgive the things we don’t see.

She'd approached the issue of social interaction like it was another puzzle to be solved, another prize to be won.

If someone says ‘sorry’ and you don’t say ‘it’s okay, I’m not mad anymore,’ you’re a bad person. Especially if you’re a girl.

I thought words were supposed to be my thing.” “Can you make change for a dollar?” “Yes . . .” “Then I can occasionally come up with a witty one-liner.

It doesn’t matter how beautiful your theory is, it doesn’t matter how smart you are. If it doesn’t agree with experiment, it’s wrong. —Richard Feynman

She looks like peaches and cream, like Saturday afternoons down by the frog pond, innocence and the American dream wrapped up in a single startlingly lovely package. It’s a lie, all of it. He believes in exploiting the world for his own gains, but she’d happily ignite the entire thing, if only to roast marshmallows in its embers.

In that moment, Roger is sure-- absolutely certain-- of two things: Dodger is real, and he wants her to be his friend.

The math would be true, and that’s all she’s ever asked from the world.