“What is it about the sight of your mother that makes everything fireside-warm and full of dancing Muppets?”

“If your mom's a witch, what does that make you? Harry Potter?”

“It's like I'm trapped in one of those omniscient dreams where you just watch yourself do stupid shit, yelling at yourself about how stupid it is, and your dream-self just keeps doing what it's doing anyway.”

“If this is mytstical, what the heck is Advil going to do about it?”

“I live dangerously enough. Now what's this about condoms or tigers?”

“Land of the Dead? Is that what you dream about?” she asks. “Boy who kills ghosts for a living?” “No. I dream about penguins doing bridge construction. Don’t ask why.”

“You know what you are, don’t you?” she asks. “You’re my salvation. My way to atone. To pay for everything I’ve done."“Anna,” I say. “Don’t ask me to do this.”