“Polka will never die.”

“We are not going to die." Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. "We're not?" "No. And do you know why?" He shook his head. "Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I'm too stubborn to die." I hauled on the shirt even harder. "And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.”

“Screw up my life?" He stared at me for a second and then said, deadpan, "I'm a five-foot-three, thirty-seven-year-old, single, Jewish medical examiner who needs to pick up his lederhosen from the dry cleaners so that he can play in a one-man polka band at Oktoberfest tomorrow." He pushed up his glasses with his forefinger, folded his arms, and said, "Do your worst.”

“I died. I died and someone made a clerical error and I am in Heaven.”

“Wait. You don't understand. I just wanted it to stop. Wanted the hurting to stop."I smoothed a bloodied lock of hair from her eyes and felt very tired as I said, "The only people who never hurt are dead."The light died out of her eyes, her breath slowing. She whispered, barely audible, "I don't understand."I answered, "I don't either."A tear slid from her eye and mixed with the blood.Then she died.”

“Stop learning, start dying.”

“Everyone dies, honey," I said, very quietly. "Everyone. There's no 'if.' There's only 'when.'" I let that sink in for a moment. "When you die, do you want to feel ashamed of what you've done with your life? Feel ashamed of what your life meant?”