Don't play his game. Play yours.

No way they could threaten him, not even with Amelie; he'd already given Amelie the finger on the way out of Morganville and he clearly wasn’t worried about her coming after him— or, if so, what would happen when she did.

He was a nice guy, middle-aged, a little tired, like most doctors usually seemed to be, but he just nodded and said, "Let me take a look at him. Shane?" "I'm not dropping my pants," Shane said. "I just thought I'd say that up front.

Claire found herself staring at his feet, which were in bunny slippers. Myrnin looked down. "What?" he asked. "They're quite comfortable." He lifted on to look at it, and the ears wobbled in the air. "Of course they are," she said. Just when she thought Myrnin was getting his mental act together, he'd do something like that. Or maybe he was just messing with her. He liked to do that, and his dark eyes were fixed on her now, assessing just how weirded-out she was. Which, on the grade scale of zero to Myrnin, wasn't much.

Shane? Thank God, somebody sane. Well, sane-ish.

Of course, I thought I was badass at sixteen, too. Wait, I was badass at sixteen. Oh, yeah.

Silver nitrate and water in a super soaker," he told her. "My own invention. Ought to be good at twenty feet, kind of like wasp spray." Oh. "You get me the nicest things." "Anybody can get jewelry. Posers