“And later when we got into the car, he took a turn down a street that I was pretty sure was a dead end. "Where are we going?" I asked. "I don't know" he said "just driving". "But this road doesn't go anywhere" I told him. "That doesn't matter." "What does?" I asked, after a little while. "Just that we're on it, dude." He said.”

“Where are we going?" I asked"I don't know," he said. "Just driving.""But this road doesn't go anywhere," I told him."That doesn't matter.""What does?" I asked, after a little while."Just that we're on it, dude," he said.”

“But this road doesn't go anywhere,” I told him.“That doesn't matter.”“What does?” I asked, after a little while.“Just that we're on it, dude,” he said.”

“He's been in love with Miss Gina since high school, but he doesn't really know how to talk to girls, so he's just been...staying around her since then. He just tends to go where she goes.""Isn't that stalking?" Jazza said."Legally, no," I replied. "I asked my parents this when I was little. What he does is creepy and socially awkward, but it's not actually stalking.”

“When we're in the story, when we're part of it, we can't know the outcome. It's only later that we think we can see what the story was. But do we ever really know? And does anybody else, perhaps, coming along a little later, does anybody else really care? ... History is written by the survivors, but what is that history? That's the point I was trying to make just now. We don't know what the story is when we're in it, and even after we tell it we're not sure. Because the story doesn't end.”

“I could have told, just looking at him, that that was the tone he would use asking a question. A tone that took it for granted any question he asked was going to be answered because he asked it. I don't like it and I know of no way anybody is ever going to make me like it.”