I have written 847 pages. Some are soaked in rain. Some in blood. One in coffee—that was an accident.
I am not brave. I am just here. And I have a pen. a record of delia's war
Delia’s war is not glory. Delia’s war is carrying a child through a city that wants her dead.” “Lin is gone. Not dead—I don’t think. Taken. A Bloc patrol kicked in our hideout door at 4 AM. They wanted the radio. Lin threw it out the window before they could grab it. Smashed on the pavement. But they didn’t know that. I have written 847 pages