“Excuse me?" I said, palms down on the Formica tabletop. "Coffee? I thought we came here for pie." "I don't eat the kind of pie they serve here." I felt a flash of heat go through my stomach. I knew firsthand the kind of pie Ranger liked.”

“I slid back into our booth. My pie was still there. For some reason, that seemed like it shouldn't be. Hadn't I been gone a long time? I felt like a death should resonate, like the whole diner should have felt it. The pie should have crumbled into dust by now. People should be somber. But the Goth kids still laughed over their coffee, the drunks were still drunk, and my pie refused to mourn.”

“How about this?' Simmon asked me. "Which is worse, stealing a pie or killing Ambrose?"I gave it a moment's hard thought. "A meat pie, or a fruit pie?”

“I am too nervous to eat pie.”

“That night, when SanJuanna had cleared the main course and brought dessert in, my mother called for quiet and said, "Boys, I have an announcement to make. Your sister made the apple pies tonight. I'm sure we will all enjoy them very much.""Can I learn how, ma'am?" said Jim Bowie."No, J.B. Boys don't bake pies," Mother said."Why not?" he said."They have wives who make pies for them.""But I don't have a wife.""Darling, I'm sure you will have a very nice one someday when you're older, and she'll make you many pies. Calpurnia, would you care to serve?"Was there any way I could have a wife, too? I wondered as I cut through the browned C and promptly shattered the entire crust.”

“Cut my pie into four pieces, I don’t think I could eat eight.”