She Is Well Practiced In The Art

Peter: Where Are You Two Going? Tris: Why Aren't You With Your Attack Group Eating Dinner? Peter: I Don't Have One. I'm Injured. Christina: Yeah Right, You Are! Peter: Well, I Don't Want To Go To Battle With A Bunch Of Factionless. So I'm Going To Stay Here. Christina: Like A Coward. Let Everyone Else Clean Up The Mess For You. Peter: Yep! Have Fun Dying.

I See A Few Hands Stretching Out To Me At The Edge Of The Net, So I Grabbed The First One I Could Reach And Pull Myself Across. I Roll Off, And Would Have Fallen Face-first Onto A Wood Floor If He Had Not Caught Me. "he" Is The Young Man Attached To The Hand I Grabbed. He Has A Spare Upper Lip And A Full Lower Lip. His Eyes Are So Deep-set That His Eyelashes Touch The Skin Under His Eyebrows, And They Are Dark Blue, A Dreaming, Sleeping, Waiting Color.

If I Let A Little Of The Emotion Out, All Of It Will Come Out, And It Will Never End.

I Have Never Been Carried Around By A Large Boy, Or Laughed Until My Stomach Hurt At The Dinner Table, Or Listened To The Clamor Of A Hundred People All Talking At Once. Peace Is Restrained; This Is Free.

I Settle Into Their Pace. The Uniform Pounding Of Feet In My Ears And The Homogeneity Of The People Around Me Makes Me Believe That I Could Choose This. I Could Be Subsumed Into Abnegation’s Hive Mind, Projecting Always Outward.