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“Of all the emotions [Isaak]'d played spectator to in his career, guilt was his least favorite. It had a dense, oily quality, like a kalamata olive with the pit still in it. The few times he's made the mistake of shapeshifting into someone blatantly guilt ridden, he'd found himself hunting for a shower after, as if scalding water might slough the sensation off. Guilt was a useless emotion. It didn't right wrongs. Didn't undo what was done. All it did was weigh a person down.”
― GennaRose Nethercott, Thistlefoot

“[Onto the highway] the milky stares darted along the interstate, southward bound. Past black tar wriggling with mirages of colonial gunpowder. Past old lynching forests where the trees had doubled over, as if to keep a man's feet on the ground. Past hand-hewn crosses beside dented guardrails and bicycles painted white, their wheels eternally spinning. Past endless remembering, warping the road. The highway, a cemetery for the lost and restless. A memorial. A circulatory system running through a nation.”
― GennaRose Nethercott, Thistlefoot