Danny hadn’t tried to shove new pictures of Grace in his face all week, and usually Steve had four picture messages by Monday at noon of Danny and Grace’s adventures over the weekend.
It feels like some kind of dream, like nostalgia or wistfulness, to be back here when he keeps thinking about being on the road with Panic.
Or, okay, whatever. Being totally honest, with Spencer.
Familial obligations are always easier with friends.
Whatever opinion you might have of Sam Seaborn outside of the times you work together, you still felt for the guy.
It was a fucking cold-ass winter.
It was the little things that colored this wrong.
Two pilots walk into a bar. One goal: to get as fucked (frakked, she can’t get the vowels right for this frakking universe) up as possible.
Spiderbites and portents.
She wrote on the last of the parchment she had, a handful of inches from the end of a roll tucked in the back of an old magazine, wrinkled and worn but still useful.
There is no true measure of time.