Foxhole Quotes

It’s not the world that’s cruel. It’s the people in it.

Hope was a dangerous, disquieting thing, but he thought perhaps he liked it.

Remember this feeling. This is the moment you stop being the rabbit.

People say there are no atheists in foxholes. A lot of people think this is a good argument against atheism. Personally, I think it's a much better argument against foxholes.

It sounded like a dream; it tasted like damnation.

It’s about second chances, Neil. Second, third, fourth, whatever, as long as you get at least one more than what anyone else wanted to give you.

Everything about Andrew was hot, from the hands holding him down to the mouth steadily taking Neil apart. Neil finally understood why his mother thought this was so dangerous.

When you come out of the grips of a depression there is an incredible relief, but not one you feel allowed to celebrate. Instead, the feeling of victory is replaced with anxiety that it will happen again, and with shame and vulnerability when you see how your illness affected your family, your work, everything left untouched while you struggled to survive. We come back to life thinner, paler, weaker … but as survivors. Survivors who don’t get pats on the back from coworkers who congratulate them on making it. Survivors who wake to more work than before because their friends and family are exhausted from helping them fight a battle they may not even understand. I hope to one day see a sea of people all wearing silver ribbons as a sign that they understand the secret battle, and as a celebration of the victories made each day as we individually pull ourselves up out of our foxholes to see our scars heal, and to remember what the sun looks like.

Oh, Neil, unpredictable as he is unreal.

God damn it, Minyard. This is why we can't have nice things.

He'd come to the Foxhole Court every inch a lie, but his friends made him into someone real.

As he slipped the lock into place again he realized his hand was trembling. He held up his shaky fingers where he could see them better and wondered at the equally weak flutter in his chest. Hope was a dangerous, disquieting thing, but he thought perhaps he liked it.

This is my reassured face," Neil said, pointing up at his blank expression.

Family means something different with us because it has to. It's not about blood. It's not even about who we like. It's about who Andrew's willing to protect.

Riko's smile could have frozen hell. "I'm not scared of Kevin. I know him." "You're going to eat those words," Neil said. "You're going to choke on them.

I have a bit of an attitude problem.

Give your back to me.

Truth is irrefutable and untainted by bias. Sunrise, Abram, death: these are truths.

Keys meant Neil had explicit permission to be here and do what he liked. They meant he belonged.

Don't look back, don't slow down, and don't trust anyone. Be anyone but himself, and never be anyone for too long.

Now that number was gone, covered up by the jet-black image of a chess piece. Neil's knowledge of chess was hazy at best, but he knew for sure that wasn't a king. "You did it," Neil said, too stunned to manage anything else. "Let Riko be King," Kevin said, with the exaggerated enunciation of the thoroughly sloshed. "Most coveted, most protected. He'll sacrifice every piece he has to protect his throne. Whatever. Me?" Kevin gestured again, meaning to indicate himself but too drunk to get his hand higher than his waist. "I'm going to be the deadliest piece on the board." "Queen," Andrew said somewhere behind Neil.

When youre sharing a foxhole with another man, you don't worry about what color he is, just whether or not he will protect your back

Being related doesn't make us family.

A group of people shouldered their way up to the bar counter at Neil's back, pushing him into Andrew. Andrew didn't budge beneath his weight. He was something solid to lean against, something violent and fierce and unmoving. Neil couldn't remember what it felt like to have someone hold him up. It was terrifying and liberating all at once. His life was out of his control now; he was giving it to Andrew and hoping Andrew would keep it safe.

University, he said quietly. It sounded like a dream; it tasted like damnation.

Welcome to the Foxhole Court.

The Foxhole Court was the only home he needed; the Foxes were his family. He didn't want any of this to have a hold on him anymore. How sad, how strange, how stupid, that he could run so far and still end up back here in the end.

It went against everything Neil knew to give in, but he'd chosen this path. He'd chosen Andrew.

Make them love you, make them hate you, I don't care. Just make them look at you.

Such an unexpected will to survive from someone who has nothing to live for.

Are you stupid?” Seth asked. “Yeah,” Neil said.

Exy was a bastard sport, an evolved sort of lacrosse on a soccer-sized court with the violence of ice hockey, and Neil loved every part of it from its speed to its aggression. It was the once piece of childhood he'd never been able to give up.

Then it's time to stop being the worst," Wymack said. "It's time to fly.

There are no atheists in foxholes" isn't an argument against atheism, it's an argument against foxholes.

What would it take to make you stay?" The question was so unexpected Neil had to turn back. "What?" Andrew laughed quietly at his shock and leaned forward. "Name it and it's yours. It doesn't matter what it is so long as you stand your ground here with us.

Neil looked down at the key in his hand. "Home," he whispered, needing to hear it aloud. It was a foreign concept to him, an impossible dream. It was frightening and wonderful all at once, and it set his heart racing so fast he thought it'd drum out of his chest. "Welcome home, Neil.

Now it seemed he'd been wrong all along; Kevin hadn't escaped either. No matter what they did or who they became, maybe they never would.

He glanced up at the sky, but the stars were washed out behind the glare of the stadium lights. He wondered – not for the first time – if his mother was looking down at him. He hoped not. She’d beat him to hell and back if she saw him sitting around moping like that.

Neil." There was a world of regret in that name, but it was a promise, too. Neil pulled himself back together piece by broken piece and followed Kevin off the Foxhole Court.

Andrew was smiling, but Neil knew his cheer didn't mean he was going to play nice. He'd been smiling when he smashed a racquet into Neil's stomach, too.

At the Foxhole Court "family" was a fantasy invented to make books and Hollywood movies more interesting.

There are no atheists in foxholes or ideologues in a financial crisis. Ben Bernanke

I'm not a math problem." "But I'll still solve you.

It's fine, Coach," Andrew said, catching up to them. He touched Neil's back on his way by, fingers light enough to give Neil goose bumps, but didn't slow on his way to Kevin's side.

I will ask you only once to tone down that animosity." "I can't," Neil said. "I have a bit of an attitude problem." Riko's smile was all ice. "A bit?

To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another name for death, and yet any soldier will tell you, if he tells the truth, that proximity to death brings with it a corresponding proximity to life. After a firefight, there is always the immense pleasure of aliveness. The trees are alive. The grass, the soil—everything. All around you things are purely living, and you among them, and the aliveness makes you tremble. You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self—your truest self, the human being you want to be and then become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to be a good man. You want decency. You want justice and courtesy and human concord, things you never knew you wanted. There is a kind of largeness to it, a kind of godliness. Though it’s odd, you’re never more alive than when you’re almost dead. You recognize what’s valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what’s best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost. At the hour of dusk you sit at your foxhole and look out on a wide river turning pinkish red, and at the mountains beyond, and although in the morning you must cross the river and go into the mountains and do terrible things and maybe die, even so, you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is not.

They say there are no atheists in foxholes. I say there are no atheists when you're begging God to keep alive the person you love.

Here's some honesty," Neil said. "I don't like you, and I don't trust you." "It's mutual," Andrew said. "That doesn't change anything.

When you know what someone wants, it's easy to manipulate them.

Looks like you've managed to completely embarrass yourself in both languages.

Melted cheese is a culinary veil...a foxhole where mediocrity can hide.

I took my orders, too. But if i couldn't keep you alive, I thought I could at least keep you together. In the middle of a big war, you go looking for a small idea to believe in. When you find one, you hold it the way a soldier holds his crucifix when he's praying in a foxhole.

The Buggers have finally, finally learned that we humans value each and every individual human life... But they've learned this lesson just in time for it to be hopelessly wrong—for we humans do, when the cause is sufficient, spend our own lives. We throw ourselves onto the grenade to save our buddies in the foxhole. We rise out of the trenches and charge the entrenched enemy and die like maggots under a blowtorch. We strap bombs on our bodies and blow ourselves up in the midst of our enemies. We are, when the cause is sufficient, insane.

There are no atheists in the foxhole.

We're Foxes. Something is always going wrong.

Whether Neil left today or tomorrow or next week, he'd leave alone. Two, five, ten years from now, if Neil was even still alive, he'd still be alone. He could be anyone, anywhere in the world, but he'd be alone until the day he died. He'd never trust anyone enough to let them in.

This means Andrew is keeping you, same as he kept Kevin. It means you're part of the family now.

I don't swing either way," Neil said. "Let's go in." "Bullshit," Nicky said. "I don't," Neil said, and impatience put an edge in his voice. It wasn't quite the truth, but it was close enough.

He likes a day in the studio to end, he says, "when my knees are all skinned up and my pants are wet and my hair's off to one side and I feel like I've been in the foxhole all day. I don't think comfort is good for music. It's good to come out with skinned knuckles after wrestling with something you can't see. I like it when you come home at the end of the day from recording and someone says, "What happened to your hand?" And you don't even know. When you're in that place, you can dance on a broken ankle.

When we are harassed and reach the limit of our own strength, many of us then turn in desperation to God-"There are no atheists in foxholes." But why wait till we are desperate? Why not renew our strength every day? Why wait even until Sunday? For years I have had the habit of dropping into empty churches on weekday afternoons. When I feel that I am too rushed and hurried to spare a few minutes to think about spiritual things, I say to myself: "Wait a minute, Dale Carnegie, wait a minute. Why all the feverish hurry and rush, little man? You need to pause and acquire a little perspective." At such times, I frequently drop into the first church that I find open. Although I am a Protestant, I frequently, on weekday afternoons, drop into St. Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, and remind myself that I'll be dead in another thirty years, but that the great spiritual truths that all churches teach are eternal. I close my eyes and pray. I find that doing this calms my nerves, rests my body, clarifies my perspective, and helps me revalue my values. May I recommend this practice to you?

I hope to one day see a sea of people all wearing silver ribbons as a sign that they understand the secret battle, and as a celebration of the victories made each day as we individually pull ourselves up out of our foxholes to see our scars heal, and to remember what the sun looks like.

How's that target on your back feel?" "Familiar," Neil said.

You aren't going anywhere. You're staying here.

I'll always have and be nothing." Andrew reached up and forcibly uncurled Neil's fingers from his mouth. He pushed Neil's hand out of the way and stared Neil down with nothing between them. Neil didn't understand the look on his face. There was no censure over Neil's crooked parents or pity for their deaths, no triumph over having backed Neil into admitting so much, and no obvious skepticism for such an outlandish story. Whatever this look was, it was dark and intense enough to swallow Neil whole.

Why don't you like girls?" Nicky looked startled by the interruption, but he rallied quickly and made a face. "They're so soft." Neil thought about Renee's bruised knuckles, Dan's fierce spirit, and Allison holding her ground on the court a week after Seth's death. He thought about his mother standing unflinching in the face of his father's violent anger and her ruthlessly leaving bodies in their wake. He felt compelled to say, "Some of the strongest people I've known are women." "What? Oh, no," Nicky hurried to say. "I mean literally soft. Too many curves, see? I feel like my hands would slide right off. It's totally not my thing. I like…" He drew a box with his fingers as he searched for words. "Erik. Erik's perfect. He's a total outdoors junkie, rock climbing and hiking and mountain biking, all that awful bug-infested fresh-air stuff. But oh my god, you should see what it does to his body. He's like this, all hard edges." He drew another box. "He's stronger than I am, and I like that. I feel like I could lean on him all day and he wouldn't break a sweat.

He could be anyone, anywhere in the world, but he'd be alone until the day he died.

Congratulations are in order, I suppose! Since I have none to give, I will tell the others to respond appropriately.

First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. They were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of his rusack. In the late afternoon, after a day's march, he would dig his foxhole, wash his hands under a canteen, unwrap the letters, hold them with the tips of his fingers, and spend the last hour of light pretending.

When I said Abby and I would look out for you, I didn't mean you should pick a fight with Riko on national television," Wymack said. "Should I have spelled that out beforehand?" "Probably," Neil said.

God damn it, Minyard. This is why we can't have nice things." "Oh, Coach. [...] If he [Neil] was nice, he wouldn't be any use to us, would he?

Take what he is giving you and make it your shield. It's hard to kill a man when everyone's eyes are on him.

How stupid, that someone so short could have such a presence.

Neil watched Kevin wilt beneath the weight of his brother’s – no, owner’s – fury and kissed his survival instincts goodbye. He grabbed Riko’s shirt and hauled him back.

The only look in his eyes was murder.

I don’t understand suicide,” Neil said. “Staying alive has always been so important I can’t imagine actively trying to die.” “He wasn’t,” Andrew said, like Neil was being stupid. […] “He wanted a way out for a little while, a few hours where he didn’t have to think or feel. Problem was he picked an out that’s easy to die on. That’s his fault.

Kevin says you'll be a champion. Four years and you'll go pro. Five years and you'll be Court. He promised Coach. He promised the school board. He argued until they signed off on you.

He looked at Kevin again. Kevin didn't recognize him, but maybe some part of him remembered the boy he'd met so many years ago. Neil's past was locked in Kevin's memories. It was proof he existed, same as this game they both played. Kevin was proof Neil was real. Maybe Kevin was also the best chance Neil had at knowing when to leave again. If he lived, practiced, and played with Kevin, he'd know when Kevin started to get suspicious.

Kevin's not allowed to drive your car but Renee is?" Neil asked. "It's fun telling Kevin no," Andrew said with a wicked grin.

That's not fair. Life isn't fair, tweedle-dumb. Get over it.

Kevin was more demanding of himself than he was of anyone around him. He set his standards impossibly high and tried for them with everything he had, and he didn't understand why others wouldn't do the same.

If you won't play with me, you'll play for me," Kevin said. "You're never going to get there on your own, so give your game to me.

You don't think he's crazy now?" "Crazy, nah," Nicky said. "Soulless, perhaps.

[...] It's a cruel world, right Neil? You wouldn't be here if it wasn't." "It's not the world that's cruel," Neil said. "It's the people in it.

Don't worry, though," Matt said. "He'll probably be too busy killing Kevin and Seth to notice you." "This is my reassured face," Neil said, pointing up at his blank expression.

His smile was small and fierce as he leaned forward into Neil's space. "Remember this feeling. This is the moment you stop being the rabbit." Neil

Do you believe in fate?" Neil heard the faint scorn in the other man's voice. "No. Do you?" "Luck, then," Aaron said, ignoring that return question. "Only the bad sort." "We're flattered by your high opinion of us, of course." Aaron

Retreating from a furious older man was so instinctive Neil didn't realize he'd flinched until Wymack froze. Wymack's face went almost dangerously blank and Neil dropped his gaze. He was careful not to look away from Wymack entirely.

Did you think I made the team the way it is because I thought it would be a good publicity stunt? It's about second chances, Neil. Second, third, fourth, whatever, as long as you get at least one more than what anyone else wanted to give you.

Sitting in front of my fireplace, basking in it's warm glow gives me time to reflect upon the sacrifices that it has taken for me to enjoy the security of a good home, in a safe environment. I can hear the soft whisper of the snow as it caresses my window and covers the ground outside in a scintillating display of sparkling lights under the full moon. How many times have our service men and women watched this same scene from a foxhole, or camped in some remote part of the world. Thankful for the silence of that moment, knowing it won’t last long. Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He/she dresses in fatigues and patrols the world restlessly, ensuring that we can have this peaceful night. Every day they give us the gift of this lifestyle that we enjoy, and every night they watch over us. They are warriors, angels, guardians, friends, brothers, fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers, forming a family that stretches back to the beginning of the country. So tonight when you go to bed say a prayer that God watch over those who watch over us, and thank them for their sacrifices, on and off the battlefield. Pray that they have a peaceful night, and will be home soon with their families who also share their burden. Without them we would not have this moment.

There was a scuffle and crash in the audience. Neil didn't want to take his eyes off Riko, but it was instinctive to look. Renee was sitting sideways in Andrew's lap, one foot braced against the ground to keep him from shoving her off. She had a hand over his mouth as they both stared up at the stage. Matt had one of Andrew's wrists in both hands. Wymack had the other. The looks on the Foxes' faces ranged from horror to fury.

We're not all bad, just so you know," Matt said [...]. "Dan hated that your first impression of us would be the do-nothings [Andrew, Aaron, Nikcy and Kevin]. She was pretty sure you wouldn't stick around long enough to meet the rest of us. [...]" "They're interesting," Neil said. "Interesting," Matt repeated. "That's the tamest description of them I've ever heard.

When depression sufferers fight, recover, and go into remission we seldom even know, simply because so many suffer in the dark … ashamed to admit something they see as a personal weakness … afraid that people will worry, and more afraid that they won’t. We find ourselves unable to do anything but cling to the couch and force ourselves to breathe. When you come out of the grips of a depression there is an incredible relief, but not one you feel allowed to celebrate. Instead, the feeling of victory is replaced with anxiety that it will happen again, and with shame and vulnerability when you see how your illness affected your family, your work, everything left untouched while you struggled to survive. We come back to life thinner, paler, weaker … but as survivors. Survivors who don’t get pats on the back from coworkers who congratulate them on making it. Survivors who wake to more work than before because their friends and family are exhausted from helping them fight a battle they may not even understand. I hope to one day see a sea of people all wearing silver ribbons as a sign that they understand the secret battle, and as a celebration of the victories made each day as we individually pull ourselves up out of our foxholes to see our scars heal, and to remember what the sun looks like.

After everything they did to you, how can you stand me?" Neil asked...He gestured between them knowing Andrew would understand. "How is this okay?" "It isn't a this," Andrew said. "That's not what I'm asking. You know it isn't-Andrew wait!" he insisted but Andrew was turning away like he couldn't hear Neil anymore. Neil reached for him, unwilling to let him leave without a real answer. "No," Andrew said and Neil's hand froze a breath from Andrew's arm. Andrew went still as well and they stood for a minute in awful silence. Finally, Andrew looked back at him, but for a moment, Neil didn't know who he was looking at. In the space of one breath, Andrew's expression went so dark Neil almost retreated. Then Andrew was back, as calm and uncaring as always and he caught Neil's wrist to push his hand to his side. He dug his fingers in before letting go, not quite hard enough to hurt and said, "that's why." Neil stopped when Andrew told him to. I wasn't much but it was more than enough.

[…] “If I can’t get an answer from you, I’ll get it wherever I can. How about I start with your parents?” “Good luck,” Neil said, feeling cold all over. “They’re dead.” “Did you kill them?” He [Andrew] said it so casually, like he was asking for the time, that Neil could only stare at him for a minute. It was such an unreasonable leap of logic Neil didn’t understand how he even thought to ask it. Then he remembered who he was talking to and asked, “Did you kill yours?

The men digging in on both sides of me cursed the stench and the mud. I began moving the heavy, sticky clay mud with my entrenching shovel to shape out the extent of the foxhole before digging deeper. Each shovelful had to be knocked off the spade, because it stuck like glue. I was thoroughly exhausted and thought my strength wouldn’t last from one sticky shovelful to the next. Kneeling on the mud, I had dug the hole no more than six or eight inches deep when the odor of rotting flesh got worse. There was nothing to do but continue to dig, so I closed up my mouth and inhaled with short shallow breaths. Another spadeful of soil out of the hole released a mass of wriggling maggots that came welling up as though those beneath were pushing them out. I cursed and told the NCO as he came by what a mess I was digging into. ‘You heard him, he said put the holes five yards apart.’ In disgust, I drove the spade into the soil, scooped out the insects, and threw them down the front of the ridge. The next stroke of the spade unearthed buttons and scraps of cloth from a Japanese army jacket in the mud—and another mass of maggots. I kept on doggedly. With the next thrust, metal hit the breastbone of a rotting Japanese corpse. I gazed down in horror and disbelief as the metal scraped a clean track through the mud along the dirty whitish bone and cartilage with ribs attached. The shoved skidded into the rotting abdomen with a squishing sound. The odor nearly overwhelmed me as I rocked back on my heels. I began choking and gagging as I yelled in desperation, ‘I can’t dig in here! There’s a dead Nip here!’ The NCO came over, looked down at my problem and at me, and growled, ‘You heard him; he said put the holes five yards apart.

It is not the dead rather the ones who lives through war have seen the dreadful end of the war, you might have been victorious, unwounded but deep within you, you carry the mark of the war, you carry the memories of war, the time you have spend with your comrades, the times when you had to dug in to foxholes to avoid shelling, the times when you hate to see your comrade down on the ground, feeling of despair, atrocities of the war, missing families, home. They live through hell and often the most wounded, they live with the guilt, despair, of being in the war, they may be happy but deep down they are a different person. Not everyone is a hero. You live with the moments, time when you were unsuccessful, when your actions would have helped your comrades, when your actions get your comrades killed, you live with regret, joyous in the victory can never help you forget the time you have spent. You are victorious for the people you have lost, the decisions you have made, the courage you have shown but being victorious in the war has a price to pay, irrevocable. You can't take a memory back from a person, even if you lose your memory your imagination haunts you as deep down your sub conscious mind you know who you are, who you were. Close you eyes and you can very well see your past, you cant change your past, time you have spent, you live through all and hence you are a hero not for the glorious war for the times you have faced. Decoration with medals is not going to give your life back. the more you know, more experiences doesn't make it easy rather make its worse. Arms and ammunition kills you once and free you from the misery but the experiences of war kills you everyday, makes you cherish the times everyday through the life. You may forgot that you cant walk anymore, you may forget you cant use your right hand, you may forgot the scars on your face but you can never forgot war. Life without war is never easy and only the ones how survived through it can understand. Soldiers are taught to fight but the actual combat starts after war which you are not even trained for. You rely on your weapon, leaders, comrades, god, luck in the war but here you rely on your self to beat the horrors,they have seen hell, heaven, they have felt the mixed emotions of hope, despair, courage, victory, defeat, scared.

...Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country. He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must. He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional. He can march until he is told to stop, or stop until he is told to march. He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient. ...He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts. If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low. He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life-or take it, because that is his job. He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay, and still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime. He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed. He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to "square-away" those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. ...Just as did his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over two hundred years. He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding. Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood. And now we have women over there in danger, doing their part in this tradition of going to war when our nation calls us to do so. As you go to bed tonight, remember this. A short lull, a little shade, and a picture of loved ones in their helmets.

Why do you hate this game so much?" Andrew sighed as if Neil was being purposefully obtuse. "I don't care enough about Exy to hate it. It's just slightly less boring than living is, so I put up with it for now." "I don't understand." "That's not my problem." "Isn't it fun?" Neil asked. "Someone else asked me that same thing two years ago. Should I tell you what I told him? I said no. Something as pointless as this game is can never be fun." "Pointless," Neil echoed. "But you have real talent." "Flattery is uninteresting and gets you nowhere." "I'm just stating facts. You're selling yourself short. You could be something if only you'd try." Andrew's smile was small and cold. "You be something. Kevin says you'll be a champion. Four years and you'll go pro. Five years and you'll be Court. He promised Coach. He promised the school board. He argued until they signed off on you. [...] Then Kevin finally got the okay to sign you and you hit the ground running," Andrew said. "Curious that a man with so much potential, who has so much fun, who could be something wouldn't want any of it. Why is that?" [...] "You're lying," Neil said at last, because he needed that to be the truth. "Kevin hates me." "Or you hate him," Andrew said. "I can't decide. Your loose ends aren't adding up." "I'm not a math problem." "But I'll still solve you.

Kevin's expression was indecipherable. Whatever it was, it didn't look particularly happy. "This is going to be a very long season." "I told you I wasn't ready." "You also said you wouldn't play with me, but here you are. [...] If you won't play with me, you'll play for me," Kevin said. "You're never going to get there on your own, so give your game to me." "Where is there?" Neil asked. [...] Kevin reached up and covered Neil's eyes with his free hand. "Forget the stadium," Kevin said. "Forget the Foxes and your useless high school team and your family. See it the only way it really matters, where Exy is the only road to take. What do you see?" [...] That thought was sombering, as it put him right back to square one and the fact that Neil Josten was a fleeting existence. It was cruel to even dream he could stay like this, but Kevin had escaped, hadn't he? Somehow he'd left that bloody room behind at Edgar Allan and become this, and Neil wanted the same so bad he could taste it. "You," Neil said at last. [...] "Tell me I can have your game." [...] "Take it." "Neil understands," Kevin said, dropping his hand and sending Andrew a pointed look. "Congratulations are in order, I suppose! Since I have non to give, I will tell the others to respond appropriately." Andrew pushed himself to his feet and swallowed more whiskey on the way up. "[...] As it is, I might puke from all the fanaticism going around.

Shirt off.” Neil stared at her. “Why?” “I can’t check track marks through cotton, Neil.” “I don’t do drugs.” “Good on you,” Abby said. “Keep it that way. Now take it off.” […] “I want to make this as painless as possible, but I can’t help you if you can’t help me. Tell me why you won’t take off your shirt.” Neil looked for a delicate way to say it. The best he managed was, “I’m not okay.” She put a finger to his chin and turned his face back toward her. “Neil, I work for the Foxes. None of you are okay. Chances are I’ve seen a lot worse than whatever it is you’re trying to hide from me.” Neil’s smile was humorless. “I hope not. “Trust me,” Abby said. “I’m not going to judge you. I’m here to help, remember? I’m your nurse now. That door is closed, and it comes with a lock. What happens in here stays in here.” […] “You can’t ask me about them,” he said at last. “I won’t talk to you about it. Okay?” “Okay,” Abby agreed easily. “But know that when you want to, I’m here, and so is Betsy.” Neil wasn’t going to tell that psychiatrist a thing, but he nodded. Abby dropped her hand and Neil pulled his shirt over his head before he could lose his nerve. Abby thought she was ready. Neil knew she wouldn’t be, and he was right. Her mouth parted on a silent breath and her expression went blank. She wasn’t fast enough to hide her flinch, and Neil saw her shoulders go rigid with tension. He stared at her face as she stared at him, watching her gaze sweep over the brutal marks of a hideous childhood. It started at the base of his throat, a looping scar curving down over his collarbone. A pucker with jagged edges was a finger-width away, courtesy of a bullet that hit him right on the edge of his Kevlar vest. A shapeless patch of pale skin from his left shoulder to his navel marked where he’d jumped out of a moving car and torn himself raw on the asphalt. Faded scars crisscrossed here and there from his life on the run, either from stupid accidents, desperate escapes, or conflicts with local lowlifes. Along his abdomen were larger overlapping lines from confrontations with his father’s people while on the run. His father wasn’t called the butcher for nothing; his weapon of choice was a cleaver. All of his men were well-versed in knife-fighting, and more than one of them had tried to stick Neil like a pig. And there on his right shoulder was the perfect outline of half a hot iron. Neil didn’t remember what he’s said or done to irritate his father so much.