“Come on, Forney.’ Novalee, it’s a parasite.’ But it’s a tradition.’ It’s a parasite! And you expect people yo stand under it and kiss?’ Yes! it’s what people do with mistletoe.”

Never act like you want it, darlin’. Act like you wouldn’t own it if they paid you. Tell them it’s dirty, broken…a useless thing. Then make an offer.

Why does anyone lie? ‘Cause we’re scared or crazy, maybe just because we’re mean. I guess there’s a million reason to lie, and I might’ve told that many…but none like that.

And the needles of the pine trees, freshly washed to a deep, rich green, shimmered with droplets that blinked like clear crystals.

And while I’m talking to you, every second I’m talking, a second is passing. Gone. Count them up. Count them down. They’re gone. Each one bringing you closer to your dying time.

Novalee watched his lips shape the words…the sounds, like whispered secrets, hanging in the air.

Home is the place that’ll catch you when you fall. And we all fall.