Do you think you're a train wreck?''That would mean I was on the tracks to start with,' he replied.

Adam's hand glided over her bare elbow. The touch was a whisper in a language she didn't speak very well.

After a moment, he calmed enough to see how his anger was a separate thing inside him, a dingy, surprise gift from his father.

Matthew Lynch was a golden, indiscriminate pit into which the world threw food.

When she returned, she leaned on the table beside Adam, who touched her wrist. She didn't know what to do in response. Touch it back? The moment had passed. She resented her body for not giving her the correct answer.

He sat in the reading room by himself, the diffuse morning light rendering him soft and dusty. He had removed one of the tarot decks from its bag and lined all of the cards faceup in three long rows. Now he leaned on the table and studied the image on each, one at at time, shuffling on his elbows to the next when he was through. He looked nothing like the Adam who'd lost his temper and everything like the Adam she had first met. That was what was frightening, though⁠—there'd been no warning.