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Aside from a Zippo, a Strider was the only item one hundred percent made in the United States with a lifetime guarantee.
“Maybe that’s all growing up is. Knowing in real time that you don’t know anything.”
Tommy gave her an approving tap on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, unless you’re the lead sled dog, the view never changes.”
“Hey, you don’t gotta wear saffron robes to practice the Lotus Blossom.”
Tommy’s wiry eyebrows rose, his forehead wrinkling. “You ain’t the average girl.” “No shit.”
He didn’t want to fight Rishi. But the guy was drinking an appletini.
The scope of the space was breathtaking—part factory floor, part Hieronymus Bosch painting.
“The hardest part of trying to become an adult is realizing that your suffering doesn’t entitle you to anything.”
Evan thought about when he’d worked on Joey’s shoulder, how it had been tender to the point of intolerability. It struck him that the same law of physics applied to any injury, physical or emotional. If you babied it, it stiffened even more, spreading the pain through you. But if you yielded, if you were willing to endure the white-hot agony of making vulnerable what you sought to protect, you had a shot at releasing it.
“Dogs are feedback loops for positive emotion,” Evan said. “They’re happy to see you, which makes you happy. Then you pet them and they’re even happier, which makes you even happier. They…” She cocked her head. “What?” “Nothing. It’s stupid.” She banged a bony elbow into his sore ribs, and he tried to act like it didn’t hurt. “C’mon, X. Spill the tea.” He cleared his throat. “They teach you the love you deserve.”