Lost in the Moment and Found (Wayward Children, #8)

by Seanan McGuire

FOR THE CHILD I WAS. I WILL SPEND MY ENTIRE LIFE TRYING TO MAKE UP FOR THE FACT THAT WHEN I WAS YOU, I DIDN’T RUN SOON ENOUGH. I’M SORRY.

I just want to offer you this reassurance: Antsy runs. Before anything can actually happen, Antsy runs.

Crying was like anything else; it didn’t matter whether it started all at once, it never stopped that way. Even when the tears were gone and dried and over, there was always snot.

She’s ours, and it doesn’t matter if she saw the advertisement or not, because she’s been put here, right and proper, and we’ll see to her or we’ll answer the reasons why before a council of our betters.”

“We don’t own you, child—and what’s your name, anyway? I can’t keep calling you ‘child’ forever. For one thing, it won’t always be true, and for another thing, it’s not very kind. People should be themselves, not just part of a classification.

“You’re a child. If an adult hurt you, that’s on them, not on you. Being bruised doesn’t make you bad, unless you’re a peach, and even a bruised peach is good for making jam.”

That’s one of the things about living in a body. It can change, but the ways it changes today will be the ways it has always been tomorrow. If the modification isn’t noted in the moment, then it can be all too easily dismissed.

You will be patient. You will be the adults you should have been all along.