In a whirlwind, Reagan quickly knocked off fifty more push-ups, flipped, and did thirty crunches, then turned and landed a kick that dented the metal door. "I'm feeling sick, too, and look at me. What if Babe Ruth had said 'Time to Rest'? Or Michael Phelps? Or Neil Armstrong? Come on, guys–what are we?" "Hungry," Natalie said. "Sleepy," Alistair added. "Grumpy," Fiske said. "Sneezy," Phoenix piped up. "Shot," Nellie said.

Once apon a time, Ian's dark, dreamy eyes had made her melt inside. The angle of his head, the wrinkle in the left corner of his lip—they'd obsessed her. And he'd been obsessed right back. Now all Amy wanted to do was throw her shoe at the screen.

Cheyenne snatched back her phone. "Someone took her brave pills today." "And washed them down with stupid juice," Casper added, cocking his gun.

Hey, Amy, did you ever want to, like, get on the conveyor belt and see what happened? Like,'Hey don't mind me, I'm just hanging with cargo'?

I g-g-guess...I'm dead?" she heard her own voice call out, strangely high-pitched and thin. For a long time, she heard nothing else. And then: "Hi, Dead. I'm Dan.

I'll sue!" Ian sputtered. "I'll sue you AND the dog. And the country of South Korea. And...and..." "The landscape architect?" Natalie asked. "The landscape architect!" Ian shouted.

Rock star do not jump!" The launch was cutting sharply, its skipper calling out a phrase that bore no relationship to the English language as Amy knew it. "Rock star in a hurry!" Nellie replied, one foot on the boat's gunwale.