“So he whistles it off, and marches on”

“So," he murmured, grinning as he tilted my chin up, "Before I march off to battle, how 'bout a kiss for luck?”

“What's up with you?" "I'm grounded," I say, just to say something real. "I told Mum to fuck off." He whistles. "Why'd you tell her that? Any other 'off' leaves room for parole. 'Sod off,' 'shove off'—even 'sock off' is still pretty satisfying." "You've told your dad to sock off?" "Once. He said, 'What the fuck is "sock off"? Be a man and tell me to fuck off.'" "So did you tell him?" "No. Because that was the trap. There's never time out for good behavior with 'fuck off.”

“The reinvention of daily life means marching off the edge of our maps”

“By George, the next time he found himself on the road all alone late at night, he was going to whistle along to every damn song on the radio."That'll show them," he snarled, though he had no idea who he'd be showing nor why he nearly tore the knob off when he shut off the radio.”

“If she’s out here and not locked up in the barracks, I’ll know,” he said. He took a deep breath and whistled.“You share a whistle?” Trevanion said in disbelief.“Do you have a problem with that?” Finnikin asked.“I have a few whistles,” Lucian murmured. “Very confusing sometimes.”“Whistles are meant for combat,” Trevanion said. “Not wooing women. Women do not understand whistles.”