Death was a cold and endless place. At least life served vodka.

It was morning distilled, the sun rising on a quiet world, a mute witness. To Liz, it was both the oldest miraculous event, and the newest. This one belonged to her, and she to it.

What is in your blood matters, but not as much as what is in your heart.

Here, at the edge of this lake, on the broad flank of this mountain range, under the boundless sky in the middle of nowhere, she was small and bare and completely inconsequential…On this journey, she would travel deep into the indifferent wilderness to discover what was possible for her, and what could not be undone.

Hiking’s not for everyone. Notice the wilderness is mostly empty.

No one tells you how hard it is to be this cool.

In a corner of her heart she imagined her compassion as kindling that could ignite not only her tender and guarded feelings for her mother, but also jump across the void and ignite her mother’s feelings for her.

She had gills while other people were breathing with lungs. There was, however, no point in dwelling on it, as it was too later to grow up differently.

What goodness she might hold in her heart had been overshadowed by her actions, again and again. She wasn’t a bad person, but she might was well be.

But for her there was no possibility of a clear conscience, merely the weak absolution of honesty, of confession.She could not buy into the cycle of sin and penance. She would always remember what she had done, and it would always sting. She would not be washed clean.