“An attractive blonde behind the receptionist's desk smiles at me as I walk in. I assume she’s the receptionist, because I can’t think of any other reason she would be sitting behind the receptionist’s desk. Unless maybe she’s filling in for the real receptionist, who could be on her lunch break. But then I remember: it’s almost two, and I doubt anyone takes their lunch breaks that late. So this must be the actual receptionist.”

“I nodded in approval, turned around and opened the door, and stepped into the hall. I walked past the receptionist, smiling at her shocked face when she told me in a superficial voice to have a nice day, and I gave her a parting gift—my middle finger.”

“I walk up right behind Frannie, where she’s sitting near the door, in time to hear her say, “You know what, Tay? Go to Hell,” and I smile, because I think it’s cute that she’s inviting her friends along.”

“The ultimate downfall of the computerized holographic receptionist was that there was no amount of flattery, flirtation or chocolate that could convince one to lie for you.”

“The receptionist looked us over, then went back to typing something incredibly urgent—like her résumé́ for another job.”

“Scarlett doesn’t want to go to the hospital. Not surprising, really, since we have to come up with an elaborate story about how we all got so severely wounded.“Dogfight. We broke one up,” my sister answers for us as a horrified emergency room receptionist looks at Scarlett’s raw, bleeding shoulders.“Dogs dislike us.” Silas shrugs, clutching the wound on his chest. He glances down at the burn wounds on my legs. I think they might scar, but it’s hard to say. The receptionist speaks into a walkie-talkie, then lets her eyes travel from the fresh wounds to the ancient scars on Scarlett’s body.“Dogs pretty much hate me,” Scarlett says testily. The poor receptionist looks relieved when the ER doctors appear and usher us down the hall.”