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“I, the soul called Wanderer, love you, human Ian. And that will never change, no matter what I might become.”

“Perhaps there could be no joy on this planet without an equal weight of pain to balance it out on some unknown scale.”

Kyle: "Jeg, jeg tok nok feil." Ian gispet. "Vær så snill, Doc, si at du tar opp dette på bånd." "Nei, beklager, Ian." Ian ristet på hodet. "Dette øyeblikket fortjener å tas vare på. Jeg trodde aldri jeg ville oppleve at Kyle O'Shea innrømte at han tok feil. Kom igjen, Jodi. Dette burde være stort nok sjokk til å vekke deg."

Regntida ville ta slutt, og når det skjedde, ville Ian og jeg være sammen, partnere i ordets rette forstand. Dette innebar et løfte og en forpliktelse som jeg aldri hadde kjent maken til i alle mine liv. Bare tanken gjorde meg lykkelig og engstelig og sjenert og desperat utålmodig på en og samme gang - den gjorde at jeg følte meg som et menneske.

De som bodde i land der freden rådet, vendte ryggen til når deres egne artsfeller sultet i hjel på dørterskelen deres. Det var en rik planet, men det var ingen rettferdighet i fordelingen av godene.

Jeb var så fornøyd med seg selv at jeg halvt ventet at han skulle klappe seg selv på ryggen, bare for å understreke det.

"Eight full lives," I whispered against his jaw, my voice breaking. “Eight full lives and I never found anyone I would stay on a planet for, anyone I would follow when they left. I never found a partner. Why now? Why you? You're not of my species. How can you be my partner?” “It's a strange universe,” he murmured. “It's not fair,” I complained, echoing Sunny's words. It wasn't fair. How could I find this, find love–now, in this eleventh hour–and have to leave it? Was it fair that my soul and body couldn't reconcile?

You. Are. Not. Leaving. Me.

I knew the human exaggeration for sorrow - a broken heart. Melanie remembered speaking the phrase herself. But I'd always thought of it as a hyperbole, a traditional description for something that had no real physiological link, like a green thumb. So I wasn't expecting the pain in my chest. The nausea, yes, the swelling in my throath, yes, and, yes, the tears burning in my eyes. But what was the ripping sensation just under my rib cage? It made no logical sense. And it wasn't just ripping, but twisting and pulling in different directions. Because Melanie's heart broke, too, and it was a separate sensation, as if we'd grown another organ to compensate for out twin awarnesses. A double heart for a double mind. Twice the pain.

W: You don't really feel that way about me you know. It's this body... she's pretty isn't she?

I: She is. Melanie is a very pretty girl. Even beautiful. But pretty as she is, she is a stranger to me. She's not the one I... care about.

W: It's this body.

I: That's not true at all. It's not the face, but the expressions on it. It's not the voice, but what they say. It's not how you look like in that body, it's what you do with it. You are beautiful.