The Fireman: A Novel

Harper thought he looked feral, as if he had been raised by wolves.

I told you had to be some kind of karmic opposite to the words I love you.

Whenever they went somewhere, they bought a bottle of wine, the way other people bought fridge magnets.

It was a wonder, how much information could pass between two people in a single glance, without a word being said.

He could not resist lecturing her, even in the last minutes of her life, and it came to her then that she hadn’t been in love with him for years. He was a tiresome know-it-all.

She had thought Jason Patric, or maybe young Johnny Depp for him, someone dark and wiry who looked like he could do a handstand and who might occasionally write poetry.

“We aren’t here to get a treat,” Captain America told her. “We’re here to give you one.

I suppose everyone always dies in the middle of a good story, in a sense. Your own story. Or the story of your children. Or your grandchildren. Death is a raw deal for narrative junkies.”

There’s something horribly unfair about dying in the middle of a good story, before you have a chance to see how it all comes out.

FOX said the Dragon had been set loose by ISIS, using spores that had been invented by the Russians in the 1980s. MSNBC