They're not that feral. They're more scared than anything else.

You're weird,' he says.
Despite everythin, I smile. 'You're always saying that, but in fact, you're weird,' I say.
'Yeah, I know. Remember? That's how I can tell you're weird, too.

I look down and see my hands uncapping the pen, turning the notepad right-side up on my knees. My mouth is dry, my stomach is in knots, my life is over, my heart is broken.

I start to write.

When the doors are open big gusts of cold air sweep into the car, and suddenly it smells damp and earthly, that early smell that tells you all the snow and ice is melting and someday the sun will come out again.

And maybe it will, for some other girl.

Something about this small glimmer of happiness feels wrong, but I can't think about that. I just hold onto the glimmer, the shred. I let myself feel a tiny bit happy. Even though it kind of hurts.

I’m not alone, I think. Carmichael’s height, his black T-shirt, black jeans, and dark hair feel like a protective wall beside me. But I am alone. I am completely alone.