I'm not a writer's writer. I'm not a craftsman. I could be, and that would be a one-book-a-year operation.

Listen up,” I said urgently. “It’s time to round up your gear. I’m gonna check in with Patrick, and then we’re getting the flock out of here.” Ha-ha.

Right now, America looks like a fatheaded, shortsighted, gas-guzzling arrogant blowhard to the rest of the world.

Home is wherever we all are together.

What happened to your tan?"--Fang "It was dirt." --Max

An unbearable smug look came over his usually impassive face."Uh-huh. You just keep telling youself that. You looove me." I took a swing at him, but he jumped back nimbly, and all I did was jar my left arm, making it hurt. He laughed at me, then pointed at the woods ouside the window."Pick a tree. I'll go carve our initials in it.

Fang: When do I get out of here? Max: They say a week. Fang: So, like, tomorrow? Max: That's what I'm thinking.