Self-pity is egotism undiluted, after all—self-centeredness in its purest form.

What were they thinking? 'It's an alien apocalypse! Quick, grab the beer!

I start to unbutton his shirt. "Got to get these clothes off," I mutter. "You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that." Smile. Lopsided. Sexy.

Some things you can never leave behind. They don't belong to the past. They belong to you.

Sarcasm doesn't appear to work on him. If that's true, I'm in trouble: It's my normal mode of communication.

Could there be irony crueler than this? How, upon his rescue, the truth had brought him here, to a house for the mad, for only a madman believes what every child knows to be true: There are monsters that lie in wait under our beds.

His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield.