“Haha, I can't hit you. If I did, I'd feel sorry for the person who'd have to clean up the mess of your splattered brain.”

“In that moment I realized I did know who to feel the most sorry for. The person who'd killed Levi. I'd find them. And when I did? The "one shot, one kill" motto of the US Army Snipers wouldn't apply.”

“Yeah, sorry. I can't help my genetics. Take your frustration out on me if it'll make you feel better, but don't mess up my pretty face.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know you were coming or I'd have cleaned up a little more. My life, I mean, not just the apartment.”

“I found myself thinking of Potts as a tragic figure, a guy who'd been a happy towheaded kid you'd love to take fishing with you, who'd mistakenly invested in academic medicine when he'd have been happy in his family business, and who'd become a splattered mess on the parking lot of a hospital in a city he'd despised. What had been the seductiveness of medicine? Why?”

“Because it's my fault, you see. I did it. And you must always clean up your own messes, even when your messes look just like you and curtsy very viciously when what they mean is, I am going to make trouble forever and ever.”