Why won't you hold me?" I ask, drawing back a little.

He laughs a little, holds out his hands as if in explanation. They are covered in dirt and paint and blood.

I pull his hand to mine, put my palm against his. I can feel the grit of sand, the slick of paint, and the cuts and scrapes that speak of his own journey.

"It will all come clean," I tell him.

Author: Ally Condie