Jane-Sweetie, we've talked about your weight-" my mother began. I'm only eight years old," I said. "How about I promise to be anorexic later?

Tell me again what we're doing here," I said, running a continuous scan of our surroundings. Fang popped some Cracker Jack into his mouth. "We're here to watch manly men do manly things." I followed Fang's line of sight: He was watching the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, who were not doing manly things, by any stretch of the imagination.

Unfortunately, every time someone said “debriefing,” the entire flock had one image: someone’s tighty-whities disappearing in a flash. We were smothering our giggles, but it was getting harder. Coupled with the whole “naval this, and naval that,” with its undeniable belly-button connotations, we were essentially turning into a sugar-jacked, sleep-deprived flock of incoherent, silly, recombinant-DNA goofballs. This was not going to end well.

I fell into a deep sleep tucked in that little cocoon, a deeper sleep than I might of had in years. Right up until someone kicked me and said "Gotcha!

I flipped down the visor so I could check myself in the mirror, and something small and heavy dropped into my lap. I froze, my breath stuck in my throat. What—? Gingerly, I looked down. It wasn’t a grenade. It was a key ring. One key was for this van. I looked at it blankly. “Well, that’ll simplify things,” Fang said.

Reading is not work, not a chore, not a drudgery; reading is the most joyful thing, yet, in the world.

There's nothing more dangerous than than someone trying to act for the greater good.