“We work together. That’s it. So I want you to do us both a favor before you think I ‘need’ to know something. Ask yourself, ‘If I were flipping burgers at McDonald’s, would I be telling the fucking fry guy this?’ If the answer is no, then shut the hell up.”

“I’ve been in your skin,” he taunted. “I know you inside and out. There’s nothing there. Do us all a favor and die so we can start working on another plan and quit thinking maybe you’ll grow the fuck up and be capable of something.”

“Come on." He jumped up and grabbed my hand. "Let's do something fun.""I can't! I have to work, and then I have a date.""Frying-pan boy again? I thought you guys broke up.""No! Why would we break up?”

“I wanted so many times while driving to flip, to skid and flip and fall from the car and have something happen. I wanted to land on my head and lose half of it, or land on my legs and lose one or both. I wanted something to happen so my choices would be fewer, so my map would have a route straight through, in red. I wanted limitations, boundaries, to ease the burden; because the agony, Jack, when we were up there in the dark, was in the silence! All I ever wanted was to know what to do. In these last months I've had no clue, I've been paralyzed by the quiet, and for a moment something spoke to me, and we came here, or came to Africa, and intermittently there were answers, intermittently there was a chorus and they sang to us and pointing, and were watching and approving, but just as often there was silence, and we stood blinking under the sun, or under the black sky, and we had to think of what to do next.”

“I try to stick to one, single rule, “If you don’t have anything to say, shut the fuck up.” I think that’s in the Bible or something.”

“Shut. Up," June squealed. "You have a date with that guy?" She giggled and covered her mouth. "Shut up, shut up, shut up! Tell me everything.""I can't do both," I pointed out.”