“Nothing. My father is very good at doing nothing. He calls it thinking.”

“Do you believe in angels? Real ones?'He strugged. 'I don't think they have feathery wings or anything like that. I think they're people who do good things even if they get nothing out of it. People like your father... and you.”

“I want my best friend back, she thinks, because without him nothing is good and nothing is right.”

“Do you really think that I don’t have anything better to do than to spend my time thinking about you? Digging up a little of the goods on Luc Martineau?”Fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes and he laughed. “Sweetheart, there is nothing little about Luc’s goods.”

“I admit to a feeling of pride that my father had saved the day yet again, although I also thought that nothing would have been better for me personally than for the mullah to force my father's departure within the hour. Either way, I know now that nothing would have stopped my father from his Jihad. If he could not remain in Afghanistan, he would go to Pakistan. If Pakistan pulled the welcome mat, he would go to Yemen. If Yemen threw him out, he would journey to the middle of the most hostile desert where he would plot against the West. Violent Jihad was my father's life; nothing else really mattered. Nothing.”

“I do this real moron thing, and it's called thinking. And apparently I'm not a very good American because I like to form my own opinions.”