The Japanese stuff, in particular -- some of the koan seemed pretty damn pointless, like "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" Maybe the lesson would've seemed more valuable if he hadn't had a friend on the team who had weird joints and could make one hand clap.

Three is a number he is familiar with. It seems to have figured prominently in his life--all the patterns of it are clearer to him now that he's lived a larger part of it. Three isn't a bad number or a good number. It's just a number, but it's his number. He almost got a tattoo of it once, but in the end decided that it was already on him in so many ways that marking it wasn't really necessary. Besides, he'd never really liked needles all that much.

You always said hi to me. In fifty years, if I remember nothing else, I think I'll remember that. No one else in the world gave a damn about me, except Max and Izzy, and if they'd really been the humans they wished they were, I think they might not have cared either.

"Do you know what this means?" Maria asks and her voice is small and low and soft. He knows that if he looks over at her there will be tears starting to form in her eyes.

"It means they can go home," Liz says.

He looks in the rearview mirror. Liz is sitting in the backseat, neatly buckled in, restrained. She is smiling. Her teeth are white, sharp-looking.

He looks back at the road.

It's always cold at first, but quickly warms in my hand, becoming familiar, balanced. It's a part of me, the same temperature as my skin, the same temper as my heart.