The worst were the blow-its. A blow-it was unpredictable. Anything could happen.
In the first half of 1981, it was just a few who died.
She knew how to read a newspaper article when she was five; now she cannot tell Chinese from hieroglyphics.
As I walked home, I felt it—little wings against my lungs.
Two houses, virtually identical in structure and appearance. Odd, right?
At night he could hear her rustling the curtain. He would whisper his questions to her.
There’s an our kind and a their kind.
I was Indiana Jones, hanging from a rope above a pit of snakes, my moves skilled and sure. My recorder was below, begging to be rescued like whatever unrealistic female heroine Jones would fall in love with and then totally forget about by the sequel.
She took in another breath, reminding herself of the hours she would have to spend today making forced smiles to cover her nerves, laughing anxiously to prevent herself from saying something she didn’t mean, and breathing in and out to steady her heartbeat.
I know what Venita does. I'm not stupid. She doesn't know I know, the fragrances of her leaving and the taste of her returning.