“She stood looking carefully at the labeled portraits Ursala had put up: Little Crow, Chief of the Santees, Geronimo, last of the Apaches, and Ursala's favorite, Big Foot, dying in the snow at Wounded Knee."Isn't that where the massacre was?" asked Ellen."Yes. I'm going to go there when I'm grown up. To Wounded Knee.""That seems sensible," said Ellen.”

“She loves swimming,” said Ellen, who I knew had been a competitive swimmer in college. Ellen looked in the rearview mirror at Kara.“Don’t you Kara?” asked Ellen.There was no response. “I didn’t start until I was three,” said Ellen. “She’s got a two year start on me.”

“Behind a rack of framed photos of Snow, we encounter a wounded Peacekeeper propped up against a strip of brick wall. He asks us for help. Gale knees him in the side of the head and takes his gun.”

“I looked up at Ellen and her not-glowing pentagram. "Harm none is the rule, Ellen: bad witch, no cookie.”

“Mom always said I was born to sit in the electric chair, but I'm proving her wrong. I'm going to die on my knees, begging for my life.”

“My father was quite conscious of that distinction, too, and because he spoke very freely in private, he used to sometimes say, quite fiercely, "Now that's secret!" And then if I or somebody else looked hurt because they thought, "Well, of course I'm not going to leave the table and pick up the telephone and ring the papers." If Papa saw that we were wounded, he would say, "It isn't that I don't trust you, but I'm labeling it, I'm labeling it." That phrase passed into family history. "I'm labeling it!" Papa would say, quite merrily sometimes.”