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Kindle Notes & Highlights
Holding Eleanor’s hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive.
She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.
Lissa {rabidreadings} liked this
If Eleanor were the hero of some book, like The Boxcar Children or something, she’d try. If she were Dicey Tillerman, she’d find a way. She’d be brave and noble, and she’d find a way. But she wasn’t. Eleanor wasn’t any of those things. She was just trying to get through the night.
