“Fine just fine.”

“Fine...a word that you said when someone asked how you were but didn't really care to know the truth.”

“Fine," he repeated, and I wondered why it was I kept coming back to this, again and again, a word that you said when someone asked how you were but didn't really care to know the truth.”

“Nope.' He sat back. 'Just been there, done that. Done that getting hauled to the police station thing because of it, too.I appreciate your quest and everything, but I have to draw the line somewhere.''Wait,' I said, holding up my hand. 'My quest?'He turned to look at me. We were at a red light, no other cars were anywhere in sight. 'Yeah,' he said. 'You know, like in Lord of the Rings, or Star Wars. You're searching for something you lost or need. It's a quest.'I just looked at him.'Maybe it's a guy thing,' he said. 'Fine, don't call it a quest. Call it chicken salad, I don't care. My point is, I'm in, but within reason. That's all I'm saying.”

“It was something I couldn't put my finger on or define clearly, but a whole mishmash of words and incidents, all rolling quickly and building, like a snowball down a hill, to gather strength and bulk to flatten me. It wasn't what they said, or even just the looks they exchanged when they asked me how school was that day and I just mumbled fine with my mouth full, glancing wistfully over at Scarlett's, where I was sure she was eating alone, in front of the TV, without having to answer to anyone. There had been a time, once, when my mother would have been the first I'd tell about Macon Faulkner, and what P.E. had become to me. But now I only saw her rigid neck, the tight, thin line of her lips as she sat across from me, reminding me to do my homework, no I couldn't go to Scarlett's it was a school night, don't forget to do the dishes and take the trash out. All she'd said to me for years. Only now they all seemed loaded with something else, something that fell between us on the table, blocking any further conversation.”

“But you, fine sir." John Miller clapped Dexter on the shoulder, a bit unsteadily. "You have problems of your own.""This is true," Dexter replied, nodding."The women," John Miller sighed.Dexter wiped a hand over his face, and glanced down the road. "The women. Indeed, dear squire, they perplex me as well.""Ah, the fair Remy," John Miller said grandly, and I felt a flush run up my face. Lissa, in the front seat, put a hand to her mouth."The fair Remy," Dexter repeated, "did not see me as a worthwhile risk.""Indeed.""I am, of course, a rogue. A rapscallion. A musician. I would bring her nothing but poverty, shame, and bruised shins from my flailing limbs. She is the better for our parting."John Miller pantomined stabbing himself in the heart. "Cold words, my squire.""Huffah," Dexter agreed."Huffah," John Miller repeated, "Indeed.”

“It was just perfect, just right all at once.”