“Oh, Lor!' said the boy, sitting down on the grassy bank at the edge of the shrubbery and very quickly getting up again because the grass was soaking wet. His name was unfortunately Eustace Scrubb but he wasn't a bad sort.”

“There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.”

“Get a grip. You're pricklier than a feral cat," he said, sitting up."Too bad for you, I'm not in heat," I said, calming down.”

“He put his shoes over the red stone footprints and when he came to the last one on the path, fell to the ground and imagined being shot. The grass was cool and sharp on his cheek. Dying, he resolved, was like that—like lying down on a piece of very green grass, surrounded by flowering shrubs, and never getting up again.”

“They call him Aslan in That Place," said Eustace."What a curious name!""Not half so curious as himself," said Eustace solemnly.”

“See, that wasn't so bad!" I grin as we tread water.Eventually he smirks at me, obviously relieved. "No, I guess it wasn't. Except I'm wet," he grumbles, but his tone is playful.'I'm wet, too.""I like you wet." He leers.”