“I'll be at your place tonight, seven thirty.""Does seven thirty mean our reservation is at eight?""Eight fifteen, in case we hit traffic or weather.""Will this mean you'll turn into a pumpkin on the way back, considering we'll probably get home past your bedtime?"Silence then, "Now she gives me smartass and it's still fuckin' cute."”

“Just lie back, wench."She snickered. "Did you call me wench? Well, you certainly dated yourself there, didn't you? Sometimes I forget how old you are. What's your age, anyway? Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?""I'm thirty-three.”

“And keep a watch out at the garage door, because you’ll be back by the stroke of seven thirty and in time for dinner or else you’ll turn back into an alien and be deported to your home planet.”

“The sun was a toddler insistently refusing to go to bed: It was past eight thirty and still light.”

“Mahoney: "Thirty-seven seconds. Great, well done; now we wait."Mr. Magorium: "No, we breathe, we pulse, we regenerate. our hearts beat, our minds create, our souls ingest. Thirty-seven seconds well used is a lifetime.”

“Fifteen!" Dess's distant cry reached him. "Where the hell are you, Rex? Ten. You're-an-idiot-nine, get-back-here-eight, you-dimwit-seven...”