He doesn't believe in "the one." There are zillions of people in the world; no one is that special. - Gabrielle Zevin

Sam looked at her outstretched hand, which he knew as well as any hand except his own — -the precise pattern of the lines that made up the grid of her palm, the slim fingers with the purplish veins at the knuckles, the particular creamy olive hue of her skin, her delicate wrist, pinkish, with a penumbral callus that must have come from Dov, the white gold bracelet she wore that he knew had been a gift from Freda on her twelfth birthday. How could she honestly think he wouldn't know about the handcuffs? He had spent hours sitting next to her, playing games and then making them, staring at her hands as her fingers flew across a keyboard or jabbed at a controller. Tell me I don't know you, Sam thought. Tell me I don't know you when I could draw both sides of this hand, your hand, from memory.

I like to believe, as a writer, that anybody who isn't a reader yet has just not found the right book.

Why are you here?" I asked him.
"That's an awfully big question, Anya."
"No, I meant here outside this office. What did you do wrong?"

"Multiple choice," he said. "(a) A few pointed comments I made in Theology. (b) Headmaster wants to have a chat with the new kid about wearing hats in school. (c) My schedule. I'm just too darn smart for my classes. (d) My eyewitness account of the girl who poured lasagna over her boyfriend's head. (e.) Headmaster's leaving her husband and wants to run away with me. (f) None of the above. (g) All of the above."

"Ex-boyfriend," I mumbled.
"Good to know," he said.