“Hey.” [Leo] squeezed her hand, though Hazel sensed nothing romantic in the gesture. “Machines are designed to work.”
“Uh, what?”
“I figure the universe is basically like a machine. I don’t know who made it, if it was the Fates, or the gods, or capital-G God, or whatever. But it chugs along the way it’s supposed to most of the time. Sure, little pieces break and stuff goes haywire once in a while, but mostly . . . things happen for a reason. Like you and me meeting.”
“Leo Valdez,” Hazel marveled, “you’re a philosopher.”