The Bones Beneath My Skin

“‘Be polite, Alex,’ she said. ‘You told me that you have to be nice when you can because you don’t know when it could mean everything to someone.’”

A direct connection exists between Alex’s worldview and Art’s. Because she was a newcomer to the human race when she first arrived on Earth, Alex’s perspective became paramount to her burgeoning understanding of Earth and humanity, especially given that Art combined her mind with his. The interactions between the two demonstrate a healthy, respectful relationship: one that benefits Art just as it might benefit a child who must learn from her parents in order to survive.

“Randy pulled a face. “Don’t know how you can stand that. All those bigwigs in Washington. What the hell do they know about the working man? I don’t trust a word out of ol’ Slick Willie’s mouth. Now Reagan. You want to talk about a good man? You talk about Ronald Reagan. He knew how to take care of business, yes, sir.”

By putting on the stereotypical persona of a “good ole boy,” Randy attempts to disguise his real identity as a soldier and assassin from the Mountain, one who has been sent clandestinely to retrieve Art from Alex. To that end, he mimics what he perceives to be a typical rant from a working-class rural man. However, his rant is contrived at best, and this initial evidence of his false nature justifies Alex’s suspicions.

“Did he have questions?

Of course he did.

They ravaged his mind. He’d always been curious. Always. Ever since he was a kid. He wanted to know everything, even those things he shouldn’t. His mother had called him nosy. She’d caught him once trying to listen in on a conversation between her and his father, and she’d told him that he needed to mind his own business. That one day, it was going to get him into trouble.

She’d been right, of course.

He was here now because of that.”

Nate exhibits the personality traits of a prototypical reporter, chasing leads and his own curiosity with an intense doggedness. This alternately gets him into trouble and saves him at various points in the narrative, but his inquisitive nature is what initially draws Art and Alex to him. Although Nate views this trait as a negative thing, the reaction of others to him suggests that his instinct for investigation is a boon rather than a curse.

“‘Jesus.’

‘You say his name a lot. Did you know he hung out with beggars and whores?’ She frowned. ‘Though, ‘whore’ isn’t a very nice thing to call someone. Anyway. It’s weird, right? He had all these friends who weren’t what someone like him was supposed to have, but he did anyway. But most people don’t talk about that when they pray to him. They’re all so focused on his death. That’s just morbid.’

He felt like everything was upside down. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

She waved a hand at him. ‘It doesn’t matter. I just think it’s important sometimes to be remembered for what you lived for rather than what you died for.’”

Art’s unfamiliarity with human culture gives her both a childlike inquisitiveness and the cutting insight of a comedian. In conversations like this one, she consistently demonstrates an ability to examine the contradictory elements of human culture and psychology, showing her unique insights as well as a growing empathy.

“She tilted her head at him as she studied him. Her eyes were bright and knowing. He didn’t flinch as she reached up and cupped his face. Her hands were warm. ‘Sometimes you need to take things on faith,’ she said quietly. ‘Even if you think you have no faith left, I promise you, you do. All of you do. It’s easier, I think, to stay lost. But when you’re found, when you open your eyes, you can finally see the truth for what it is.’”

Throughout much of the narrative, Art and Alex require Nate to take their claims on faith, rather than explaining the reasons for their action; in fact, they do not tell him their full story until the final chapters. This requirement makes it more difficult for Nate to believe them, but at the same time, it also strengthens his resolve to help them once he does believe them. Crucially, Nate does not help Art and Alex in order to benefit himself; instead, he acts decisively on their behalf because he cares for them. His actions therefore reinforce the theme of The Healing Influence of Found Family.

“And he’d lie there, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the cabin settle quietly around him. He’d think the muddled thoughts of those still waking up: What do I have to do today and Where am I? and Oh, that’s right, that’s right, everything is weird and different. I’m in Oregon. I’m in a cabin in the woods with people I don’t know who are running from something they aren’t explaining—

Everything would be startlingly clear then.”

Nate consistently searches within himself to find reasonable, rational answers to the mysteries surrounding Art and Alex. However, because he is still dealing with The Impact of Loss and Grief in his own life, he instead needs to rely on his feelings, as his rationality cannot help him in this situation. Nate’s attempts to reason his way toward answers are shown to lead to more anxiety.

“Art patted his knee. ‘So later, after we escape the bad men with the guns and the helicopters, we probably should tell you that I’m pretty much not from around here. And by around here, I mean this planet.’ She paused, considering. ‘Or even this galaxy, if we’re being specific.’

‘Art,’ Alex snarled.

She winced. ‘Oops. That didn’t come out like I meant it to. My bad. I really need to work on my timing.’

‘Space princess,’ Nate breathed.

She grinned at him. ‘You remembered! How fun.’”

Art’s unfamiliarity with humans leads to comic scenes such as this one, where Art’s explanation of her alien nature is delivered far more casually than would be expected. Paradoxically, this quirk makes it easier for Nate to believe her stories, as her behavior does not adhere to his expectations of how a girl her age would behave.

“He thought Alex would slow. Would stop. Would turn the fucking truck around and drive in the opposite direction of the helicopters that rounded the corner ahead. He didn’t. If anything, he went faster.

‘You’re both fucking insane,’ he managed to say.

‘It’s a good thing you’re not a doctor, because insanity isn’t a medical diagnosis,’ Art said. ‘You should stick with what you know.’”

As before, Art reacts far too casually to stressful and dangerous circumstances, and this incongruous response further emphasizes her alien nature. This passage marks a moment in which Nate transitions from a passive observer to an active participant in the events around him, and he begins to make decisions that will affect the trajectory of the rest of the narrative.

“It probably didn’t help that Art sat between them, staring at him and barely blinking.

Sometimes he stared right back, trying to see something, anything that would show him how full of shit she was. How full of shit both of them were. But he couldn’t find a thing. Not that he knew what he was looking for, anyway.

Other times he ignored her outright, knuckles white as he held on to his own knees, knowing there’d probably be bruises later but not caring in the slightest. He had to hold on to something to keep from flying apart.”

Nate’s psychological torment often manifests itself physically. In this scene, Nate is so tense that he feels the need to hold himself together literally, almost to the point where he causes himself injury. The narrative frequently indicates that mental wounds can be more damaging than physical injuries, for Art is able to heal the latter. However, Nate is forced to come to terms with reality on his own, without Art’s help.

“And when she leaned forward, when she put her small hands on his face, he didn’t flinch. ‘You think yourself alone. You think yourself lost. We wanted to show you that there was so much more than this place. We didn’t come to hurt you. We didn’t come to save you. Only you can do that. We came to be your friend. To make you understand that, in the end, you are never alone.’”

Rather than bearing a threat of violence, Art’s hands become symbols of gentleness, connection, and compassion. As with her earlier show of empathy, Art’s speech challenges typical alien narrative tropes by positioning extraterrestrials as catalysts for human self-realization rather than saviors or destroyers.

“It was a little town near the Canadian border. They’d swung south before heading north again. They were spinning their wheels, waiting for something to happen, for Art to tell them the way. She’d said it wasn’t time yet, that she’d know when and where she needed to go. She’d tried to explain it to Nate, telling him it was a tug in her head, because she didn’t need to speak where she’d come from. The first time she’d ever even had a mouth was with Oren.

That had sent Nate spiraling for hours.”

Just as the characters are feeling internal turmoil, the land itself becomes disorienting. Thus, the novel’s structure utilizes external landscapes to create a more vivid sense of the characters’ emotional experiences. Unlike the cabin, a setting that invites contemplation and delivers a feeling of safety, the trio’s constant travel evokes feelings of dislocation, uncertainty, and urgency.

“‘I know,’ she said, and he believed her. ‘You’re all capable of such great and terrible things. And in such a short amount of time. You are surrounded by millions of those like you, yet you can still feel alone. You’re so angry and powerful and wonderful. And so fragile. You can break into pieces and feel so lost.’”

Art views human beings as people who are in the grip of constant contrasts, harboring the capacity for every kind of conceivable behavior and experience. Paradoxically, this contradictory nature is what Art finds interesting about humans, and, in the end, this is the very trait that causes her to stay on Earth.

“We’re not alike. Not really. We’re separated by time and space. And yet, somehow, we’re all made of dust and stars. I think we’d forgotten that. And I don’t know if you ever knew that to begin with. How can you be alone when we’re all the same?”

Cosmic imagery is employed in this scene to establish a sense of connection that transcends the apparent differences between species. Additionally, the final rhetorical question transforms scientific observation into philosophical insight, emphasizing The Healing Influence of Found Family.

“He waits until he knows Laura is off the Mountain. She leaves every month or so for a week before returning. He doesn’t know where she goes. He wonders sometimes if she has a family waiting for her. And if she does, what they think she’s doing when she leaves for work. He thinks they’d be surprised to know their loved one has ordered the decimation of the thing inside the little girl. Coincidentally, it’s during one of her absences that the threat of a strong spring storm comes in.”

This passage creates depth through Alex’s speculation about Laura’s possible family life, contrasting ordinary domesticity with the extraordinary violations that the Mountain inflicts on Art and its other captives. In the Mountain’s conception, violence is inevitable and even desirable if it is employed to protect something that is even more valuable than what is being destroyed. This is a completely different perspective from that shared by Art and Alex.

“He was in over his head, though he’d be lying if he said some small part of him wasn’t still thinking about how big a story this could be. How when this was all over, the narrative he could craft would probably get him hired anywhere he wanted. Or better yet, a book deal. Sure, he’d probably get pushback, but couldn’t he provide proof? The things he’d seen. The people who’d come after him. The Mountain. They couldn’t cover it up. Not all of it. He could expose them all. Maybe if they all got out of this alive and Artemis found her way… home, he could consider it. He could do something. People deserved to know, didn’t they? They deserved to know what else was out there. That if it was anything like Art, it was benevolent and kind and not to be afraid of.”

Just as this passage reveals Nate’s conflicted motivations, it also focuses on his journalistic instinct to expose secrets—a trait that competes with his growing loyalty to Art and Alex and creates a palpable sense of narrative tension. The repetition of the phrase “He could” signals possibility but also uncertainty, showing that Nate struggles to reconcile his role as both participant and potential narrator of these extraordinary events.

“Nate’s hands were trapped between them, curled into Alex’s flannel shirt, holding on for dear life. It wasn’t—they were off, just a little. Their knees knocked together more often than not, and Alex stepped on Nate’s feet more than once. If Nate wanted to do this properly, he’d probably step back just a little, put some space between them. But he was good with where he was, and Alex didn’t seem inclined to let him go anytime soon. It wasn’t the best dance in the world, but it was theirs, and it was enough.

Billie sang.

They danced.

Yeah. He understood heartbreak, all right.”

This dance scene uses physical awkwardness as a metaphor for Nate and Alex’s developing relationship—imperfect and tentative, yet meaningful. Just as Nate navigates his growing relationship with Art, his feelings for Alex develop in this moment, further entrenching his connections to the two of them.

“A warning bell went off in Nate’s head. ‘Is that how you met Peter?’

She brought her right thumb up to her mouth and started gnawing on the fingernail. ‘Yes. He said things. And I wanted to believe them, believe him. But it was hard. My daughter, she—she thought it was all a bunch of bull. She said I was acting crazy.’ She laughed a little wildly. “I told her that we all had things we believed in.”

The metaphor of the “warning bell” establishes immediate narrative tension, showing Nate’s instinctive recognition of danger despite the lack of immediate evidence of its existence. The dialogue’s reference to “believing” despite evidence also creates a sense of dramatic irony, as the dangerous consequences of cult belief are clear despite Dolores’s inability to recognize them.

“Artemis said, ‘We have to hurry. Peter is going to—’

His father opened the truck.

Pulled out a shotgun.

And for a moment, for a brief, shining moment, he hesitated. Nate could see it. That look on his face. That look of comprehension. Of horror. As if he understood right then and there what he was about to do. What he was truly capable of. And Nate had hope. He had hope that things could change.”

Nate’s complicated feelings of grief and anger toward his father are shown here to be directly connected to his reaction to Peter, Randy, and the other violent men who are trying to separate Nate from his newfound family. Unlike before, when his father successfully severed the connection between Nate and his mother, Nate will now resist the destruction of that connection in order to maintain the safety and integrity of the new family that he has been able to develop.

“It went like this: Nathaniel Cartwright was twenty-seven years old.

His parents were dead.

The only family he had left had forsaken him.

He’d gone to a cabin in the middle of the woods to mourn the loss of everything he’d known.

Instead, he’d had a gun pressed to the back of his head.

Instead, he’d found a man and a little girl who was the strangest person he’d ever met.

He’d been scared of them.

Of who they were.

And later, of what they were.

But fear can be a funny thing. You can fear what you don’t understand, but in the end, you can still be brave. You can still stand up for what’s right.”

This passage employs anaphoric repetition and staccato sentence structure to create a rhythmic progression of Nate’s experiences. The final lines transform the personal narrative into a universal statement about maintaining one’s courage despite uncertainty, and the passage therefore connects Nate’s specific journey to the broader scope of human experience.

“‘I know now,’ she said. ‘What it means to be human.’

He wiped away her tears. ‘What?’

‘It means having your heart broken. There is nothing more human than a broken heart. How am I supposed to leave you both?’”

Art’s definition of humanity centers on emotional vulnerability rather than on biological characteristics, revealing her core of deep empathy. The paradox of defining humanity through heartbreak rather than joy also creates a contradictory emotional depth. Throughout the novel, negative and painful experiences are also opportunities for growth, and Art recognizes this truth better than anyone else in the novel.

“She said, ‘I wondered what you would be like. Humans. What you would be capable of. How your minds would work. How your hearts would beat. You are animals. Fierce and wild. You are harsh and brutal and beautiful. There is no one like you in all the universe. You have the power for such destruction within you. And such joy. It’s a dichotomy that shouldn’t exist, and yet here it is. Within you. Within all of you.’ She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. Each cheek. The tip of his nose. “I’m glad we found you. I’m glad he has you. Remember that when you look up at the stars.”

Art contrasts the human essence with experiences of her own kind, finding beauty in the contradictions that humans embody. Her expression of compassion and love in this scene stems from her feelings of connection within that contradiction, and this dynamic reinforces her decision to stay on Earth at the end of the novel.

“Time passed differently in the Mountain. Time passes differently everywhere here. We don’t… mark the passage of time. Not like you do. Not with anniversaries or parties or balloons or cake. It has a different meaning. It’s… fluid. It can bend. It’s not the straight, rigid line you think it is. Time and space never are.”

Art’s perspective on time is very different than the typical human experience, showcasing her alien nature, despite her clear connection to and understanding of humans. Throughout the novel, Art exhibits less  urgency about time than either Nate or Alex, and this temperamental difference shows that her perspective shapes her behavior.

“That may be so, but I would do it again. And again. And again. You may not understand them. You may not see their purpose, but I have seen their hearts. I have seen their souls. They are stars. They are dust. And I will remember them. Always.”

In this passage, the triple repetition of “again” creates an emphatic rhythm that underscores Art’s absolute commitment. Additionally, the final declarative sentence positions memory as form of immortality, suggesting that being witnessed and remembered creates meaning far more enduring than physical existence.