Ah coffee. The sweet balm by which we shall accomplish today's tasks.

On the way out to the car, Philip turns to me. “How could you be so stupid? I shrug, stung in spite of myself. “I thought I grew out of it.” Philip pulls out his key fob and presses the remote to unlock his Mercedes. I slide into the passenger side, brushing coffee cups off the seat and onto the floor mat, where crumpled printouts from MapQuest soak up any spilled liquid. “I hope you mean sleepwalking,” Philip says, “since you obviously didn’t grow out of stupid.

I need your help," says the tiny figure. Her voice is sad and soft and sounds like Lila's, but with an odd accent that might just be how cats sound when they talk.

She'd always been a little contemptuous of beauty, as though it was something you had to trade away some other vital thing for.

The truth is messy. It's raw and uncomfortable. You can't blame people for preferring lies.

Because I am about to be devoured by poodles," I quip. "Remember me always, my love.

I'm the best kind of thief, the kind that leaves behind items equal in value to those he's stolen.