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thumping thingy.
“There’s always a ‘lie’ in what we believe, an ‘if’ in life, and an ‘end’ in friends,”
In her head, fears stack like Jenga blocks, and out of habit, she lists them under her breath: escaped criminals, police chase, shootout, jumping from a moving car, lost in the woods, bear—ferocious bear, loyal Rolf bleeding at her feet…
“It’s not bear
Did he just hear her thought?
Exiting the restroom, Libby goes left instead of right. She ends up in a small kitchen that reminds her of her own at home—doesn’t she have the same worn red pot holders?—before
Hint that this is actually her house.
“Everyone has their own shit. Just in different flavors.”
Libby pulls out a box of lemon-balm tea and a bottle of Huperzine A, a brilliant name she hopes she remembers to use for a character one day.
he throws one into his own mouth. “Ante up.”
I thought he had not read the books?
“We can go back,” Libby says quickly. “There are probably ticks.” Or spiders, snakes, mountain lions, bears, or serial killers, she thinks. Buzz actually laughs out loud. “Is there anything you’re not scared of?”
Did he respond to her thought again?!
She leans over the edge of the tree house—“Half-pipe,” Buzz corrects—and
Buzz corrected her thought.
Consider that maybe you don’t want to know the answer.
This is not real.
“In every book, Huperzine or Benjamin don’t want to go somewhere. But once Everlee makes them, they realize it’s their destiny.
Peanut is Everly, Libby is Huperzine
She wishes she had a pencil to write it down. “You already did,” says Peanut.
Peanut replied to her thought.
the Unstopping isn’t one immortal being. He is everywhere—like an invisible disease that consumes people from the inside out.
The Unstopping is a metaphor for her dementia
The old shell of a woman—it’s me, she thinks.
Libby is better at pretending than living her own life.
‘You didn’t cause this, and you can’t cure it. But you sure can’t deal with it alone.’”
Libby feels like she’s standing in her closet at home, squeezed between her dozen long-sleeved white shirts and gray cardigans. If she closes her eyes, she can hear her empty plastic hangers tap, tap, tap against each other.
She probably IS in her closet.
“I don’t think we have a lot of time.”
Because they are in her head and she is dying.
Libby hears water running.
Hints of the real world.
Here we are at Colorado’s Cross Creek Hospital, where the world’s most famous author has reportedly been admitted after suffering what sources say is an emotional breakdown.
So she is at the hospital for herself
she can see the dozens of eyes on his neck and cheeks are still there. They are just closed.
This is obviously not true
Deep inside her head, a door opens, and a voice calls, “Libby?”
This seems real.
But Libby is not a fighter. She is not a complainer. She is not a stand-up-for-your-selfer. I am! a voice inside Libby shouts, exasperated.
Finally, Peanut thinks. She is exactly where she wants to be. As quietly as she can, she scrambles down the slippery tree roots to the entrance of the OtherWay, but the Squirrel Keeper is already waiting for her.
This is part of her book.
a scavenged baby doll with chewed fingers and plucked hair. Its eyes have been x-ed out with black marker and its mouth sewn shut.
Is this Libby?
(Libby does not like the word “nibble,” but she will switch it out later.)
This is part of tbe book.
Libby can hear the sounds of her real life—the whirr of her apartment air conditioner, the thunk of boxes delivered outside the front door, the ping of her microwave, although she can’t remember what is being reheated.
Glimpses of the real world.
“You asked what people think of when they know they’re about to die. You know what I think?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer. “I think,” he says slowly, “they imagine the people they love.” He shrugs. “They don’t have to be real.”
animal communicator,
She admitted earlier to having written a character who communicated with animals.
