Isaiah rolled his eyes. "Good God. What a noble lot. You're all Spartacus, aren't you?

Do you think I'm pretty? I think you're beautiful Beautiful? You are so beautiful, it hurts sometimes.

What hope is there?” I asked. “If even angels fall, what hope is there for the rest of us?” “There isn’t,” he said. “We’re on our own. And we have to make the choices we think are best for our own survival.

Not much could have distracted me from coffee, but hearing Julius Caesar quoted at Spencer’s certainly did.

Conversation was irrelevant. Only pie mattered.

My name's Jet Steele.

After almost exactly three hours, we rolled into a small hole of a town that had one traffic light and a resturant simply marked DINER. There hadn't been any traffic on the road for over an hour, though, which was really the most important thing. We hadn't been followed. Sydney drove us to a building with a sign that read MOTEL. Apparently this town liked to stick to the basics when it came to names. I wouldn't be surprised if it was actually just called TOWN.