She remembered the feeling of nauseous weightlessness as clearly as she recalled her non-existent measurement. Ice had clambered down her spine as she looked at her name.
No line was drawn next to her stupid name. She had seen it clearly – there was no doubt that it was her. “Saya Joan Kirk,” the Book said, and yet it didn’t tell her she was living on borrowed time. There was only a dot next to the name her parents had argued so long about.
She had worried over it day and night.
Rowan didn’t understand early on – he didn’t know what it was for. But she knew. From the very beginning, from the first time she had touched that spotlessly filthy Book, she knew.
The people that lived around her all had timelines.
Rowan had a timeline.
Sunny next door, Sunny who never let anyone know that her real, Christian name was Sunday, Sunny who loved cherry pie with ice cream and talked to animals daily – that bighearted Sunny had a timeline, and it ended as soon as she hit twenty.
And Saya knew about it all.