I grunted. It's something I picked up over a fifteen-year career in law enforcement. Men have managed to create a complex and utterly impenetrable secret language consisting of monosyllabic sounds and partial words—and they are apparently too thick to realize it exists. Maybe they really are from Mars. I'd been able to learn a few Martian phrases over time, and one of the useful ones was the grunt that meant "I acknowledge that I've heard what you said; please continue.

I'm sure that you psychotic necro-wannabes with delusions of godhood are all about sharing with your fellow maniacs.

Just because you start out as one thing, it doesn't mean you can't grow into something else.

There's always, always a choice. My options might really, truly suck, but that doesn't mean there isn't a choice.

Murphy watched me thoughtfully for several empty seconds. Then she said, very gently, "You're a good man, Harry." I swallowed and bowed my head, made humble by the tone of her voice and the expression on her face, more than the words themselves. Not always rational," she said, smiling. "But you're the best kind of crazy.

Me and polite have never been on close terms.

It doesn't make you a monster to want, she said, her voice very gentle. It's what you do with it that matters.