It was one of the warm nights at the end of summer that makes promises that won't be kept.

We may all end up dead, but we're sticking it to them in the meantime.

He expects nothing, she thought, because he's never had anything. And nothing was expected of him. He was free in a way she never would be.

Nobody's going to hand you anything. You don't get what you don't go after.

Crow walked toward her, arms outstretched like a man in a dream, which he was, in a way. Sometimes a dream is enough.

Plus he was naturally lucky at cards. As Mam had always said, lucky at cards, or lucky at life. One or the other. Not both.

I'd rather have a go at life, so there's something to talk about once we're gone.