<blockquote>She used to keep track of things. Of dates. Of names. Of time spent in one city before drifting to the next, staying unnoticed and unremarked. Of schools she attended, hands shoved in pockets, head down, saying, "My name is Jennifer (or Susan, or Emma, or Faith) and it's nice to meet you."
She used to remember her name.
It doesn't matter. She has to tell herself this, over and over. All the leaving and forgetting and the years that burn up in her thoughts like kindling. They don't matter. She'll live forever. Young, wild, and unhurt.</blockquote>
