“Victor, back there in that basement, when the zombies were… were… moving around on those tables…. Twitching? And dead? You didn’t even blink.This is nothing like those zombies.No shit. Because this time, you’re scared—beyond scared. You’re terrified. And whatever’s got you scared? I don’t want any part of it.”

“You shot heroin in the bathroom while I was disinfecting the kitchen. Didn’t you?”“Of course not.” He pulled on his gloves and led the way into the building. “I hatched from a pod and hid the real Jonathan under the floorboards.”“You’re much less creepy when you’re pensive and focused. Just so you know.”

“When people die,” I said, “and you’ll be able to verify this for yourself—most of ’em move on. A few of ’em stick around. But the ones who stick around are usually messed-up. Murders and suicides, or people with unfinished business. As for accidents and illness—at the very worst, they leave a little residue. A repeater. A psychic impression of the final moments, like a moving snapshot. I think the spirits of those repeaters, they’re fine. They go wherever it is people…go. When they die.”

“You don’t have to be psychic to end up knowing things you were a lot happier not knowing.”

“Those wire baskets where you leave your paperwork to die...”

“Or you can fake your own death," Bill suggested."Because really, that's the most cathartic resolution—if all your friends and family think you're dead. Everyone cries, they have a little rant about all your potential going to waste, they put on a memorial service and you can hide and see who bothers to come—and if you're really lucky, they bury an empty coffin. When they couldn't even be bothered to spot you a twenty 'til payday. You know how much booze you could buy for the cost of a single coffin?”

“I really hate threesomes when one of the participants is dead.”