He’s chosen one of the coffee places in the city that Candice talks about.
The match flared orange and momentarily suffused crisp December air with an oddly soothing aroma of sulfur and smoke.
Sveta twisted and turned in the mirror, lifting her shirt to inspect her stomach, flattering herself that it looked harder, firmer, than it had last week.
“Thirteen’s too old to be scared of a rock,” Clay’s dad smirked, even though Clay hadn’t said he was scared.
He reads at his work bench in the garage.
I was eight years old when Yuri Zhilin floated away.