“Donnelley was lifting his shirt away from the torn flesh in his side. He was cranked around, trying to assess the damage in the muck-spotted mirror. To Vero, he looked like an expressionist painting in which all the objects were the same color of too-vivid red: the shirt, the hands holding the shirt, the belt bassing through pant loops. At the center of it all was the thing that corrupted its surroundings with its own gruesome color - a wound.”

“He dropped his pants and went at it looking like Winnie-the-Pooh in his red polo shirt.”

“The shirt touches his neck and smooths over his back. It slides down his sides. It even goes down below his belt— down into his pants. Lucky shirt.”

“The shirt I have on today is the color of a banana, and tomorrow’s shirt will also be the color of a banana. Tomorrow’s shirt will be a slightly different color, but will in fact be the same shirt.”

“Derek looked around, like he was searching for something to use. Then he stripped off his shirt. I tried not to look away. Not that he looked bad without his shirt. The opposite, actually, which is why...Let's just say friends are really better when they're fully clothed.”

“Today he wore a burnt-orange shirt, black pants, and a tie that looked like a street fight at the south end of the color wheel.”