Ramp Walk Quotes

People with [Chronic Fatigue] who kill themselves are the millenium's favorite type of disabled citizens-- those who will walk quietly among the healthy, then quietly dispose of themselves.

Come on," Alec said, already stomping down the ramp. "Let's find us a squirrel." He swept the weapon back and forth as he walked, looking for any interlopers. "Or better yet, one of the crazies who might've strayed over here. Too bad these things have to be charged or we could get rid of this virus problem in a jiffy. Sweep these old neighborhoods nice and clean." Mark joined him on the ground below the Berg, wary that someone might be watching from the ruined homes surrounding them or from the burnt woods beyond those. "Your value of human life brings tears to my eyes," he muttered.

Nobody paid attention; they walked around or stepped over – except one woman carrying a baby, who stopped, kicked him carefully in face, then went down ramp.

A young man and woman walked past - a handsome young man and pretty young woman, the man in a seersucker suit and the woman in an old-fashioned summer dress - and they were walking a bit apart from one another with a space between them, and the man was looking straight ahead and the woman had her arms crossed against her chest, hugging herself, looking down at her feet, at her toes that peeked out the open fronts of her shoes, and they both had the same gleefully suppressed smile on their faces, and I knew that they were freshly in love, perhaps they had fallen in love having dinner in some restaurant with a garden or tables on the sidewalk, perhaps they had not even kissed yet, and they walked apart because they thought they had their whole lives to walk close together, touching, and wanted to anticipate the moment they touched for as long as possible, and they passed my without noticing me and Miro. Something about watching them made me sad. I think it was too lovely: the summer night, the open-toed shoes, their faces rapt with momentarily ramped-down joy. I felt I had witnessed their happiest moment, the pinnacle, and they were already walking away from it, but they did not know it.

That's the famous vampire Helgarson you're riding with, isn't it? Is he fond of lattes?" "I don't know." I looked over at Leif, who was grinning-he was hearing both sides of the conversation, of course-and said, "Malina wants to know if you like lattes, and I want to know if you're famous." "No to both," he said, as we screamed onto the 202 on-ramp. "Sorry, Malina," I said to the phone. "He's not famous." "Perhaps it would be better to call infamous. It is irrelevant at this point. What is relevant is that my sisters and I are not great warriors. Were the odds even and they did not cheat with modern weapons, I would say, yes, we could walk in and win a magical battle against most opponents. But we are outnumbered more than three to one." "How many are there?" "Twenty-two. Some of them have firearms, but they are not great warriors either. And while they may be expecting you, Mr. O'Sullivan, they will not be expecting Mr. Helgarson to get involved. I imagine the two of you together will be quite formidable." "She's complimenting our martial prowess, Leif," I said to him. "I feel more manly already," He said. The short distance on the 202 was already covered and we were merging onto the southbound 101. "Hey, Malina, tell me how much you want to see us play with our swords.

I walked up the ramp and stood in the van, trying to decide where to begin my inspection of the concealed words whose bones were molded together by men to make either an awesome vision of truth that would guard any door of the mind, or a creature that would stand for a while, deceptively whole, then collapse, scattering across the threshold the dry dead bones that did not even burst into flame at their friction one with the other.

Ms. Terwilliger didn’t have a chance to respond to my geological ramblings because someone knocked on the door. I slipped the rocks into my pocket and tried to look studious as she called an entry. I figured Zoe had tracked me down, but surprisingly, Angeline walked in. "Did you know," she said, "that it’s a lot harder to put organs back in the body than it is to get them out?" I closed my eyes and silently counted to five before opening them again. “Please tell me you haven’t eviscerated someone.” She shook her head. “No, no. I left my biology homework in Miss Wentworth’s room, but when I went back to get it, she’d already left and locked the door. But it’s due tomorrow, and I’m already in trouble in there, so I had to get it. So, I went around outside, and her window lock wasn’t that hard to open, and I—” "Wait," I interrupted. "You broke into a classroom?" "Yeah, but that’s not the problem." Behind me, I heard a choking laugh from Ms. Terwilliger’s desk. "Go on," I said wearily. "Well, when I climbed through, I didn’t realize there was a bunch of stuff in the way, and I crashed into those plastic models of the human body she has. You know, the life size ones with all the parts inside? And bam!" Angeline held up her arms for effect. "Organs everywhere." She paused and looked at me expectantly. "So what are we going to do? I can’t get in trouble with her." "We?" I exclaimed. "Here," said Ms. Terwilliger. I turned around, and she tossed me a set of keys. From the look on her face, it was taking every ounce of self-control not to burst out laughing. "That square one’s a master. I know for a fact she has yoga and won’t be back for the rest of the day. I imagine you can repair the damage—and retrieve the homework—before anyone’s the wiser.” I knew that the “you” in “you can repair” meant me. With a sigh, I stood up and packed up my things. “Thanks,” I said. As Angeline and I walked down to the science wing, I told her, “You know, the next time you’ve got a problem, maybe come to me before it becomes an even bigger problem.” "Oh no," she said nobly. "I didn’t want to be an inconvenience." Her description of the scene was pretty accurate: organs everywhere. Miss Wentworth had two models, male and female, with carved out torsos that cleverly held removable parts of the body that could be examined in greater detail. Wisely, she had purchased models that were only waist-high. That was still more than enough of a mess for us, especially since it was hard to tell which model the various organs belonged to. I had a pretty good sense of anatomy but still opened up a textbook for reference as I began sorting. Angeline, realizing her uselessness here, perched on a far counter and swing her legs as she watched me. I’d started reassembling the male when I heard a voice behind me. "Melbourne, I always knew you’d need to learn about this kind of thing. I’d just kind of hoped you’d learn it on a real guy." I glanced back at Trey, as he leaned in the doorway with a smug expression. “Ha, ha. If you were a real friend, you’d come help me.” I pointed to the female model. “Let’s see some of your alleged expertise in action.” "Alleged?" He sounded indignant but strolled in anyways. I hadn’t really thought much about asking him for help. Mostly I was thinking this was taking much longer than it should, and I had more important things to do with my time. It was only when he came to a sudden halt that I realized my mistake. "Oh," he said, seeing Angeline. "Hi." Her swinging feet stopped, and her eyes were as wide as his. “Um, hi.” The tension ramped up from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, and everyone seemed at a loss for words. Angeline jerked her head toward the models and blurted out. “I had an accident.” That seemed to snap Trey from his daze, and a smile curved his lips. Whereas Angeline’s antics made me want to pull out my hair sometimes, he found them endearing.

But I have seen many men for whom death truly is the end walk towards their demise for reasons no greater than that it was what they were told to do. On the beaches of Normandy, where the bodies floated in the water beside the falling ramps of the landing craft, I saw men run into machine-gun fire who would say, "Hell, I never thought it would come to this, but now I'm here, what's a guy to do?" With no going back, and no going forward, they went to their deaths with no better plan immediately to hand, having gambled that their choices would not narrow so far, and having been found to be wrong.

I encourage everyone to visit the exhibits and then walk up the ramp and go aboard Nautilus. Check out the torpedo room, wardroom, officer quarters, attack center, galley, and crew’s mess and quarters. I think you will find her as grand and accommodating as ever. Looking

Let’s see St. Louis.” “One of the most colorful sections of town is right here at the waterfront,” Julie Anne said. “We can ride a little old-fashioned trolley car. It will take us to a number of interesting places including the arch and the old-time paddle wheel steamers at the foot of the levee.” “That sounds like fun,” Nancy said eagerly. “Let’s try the arch first.” At the next corner the girls boarded a yellow streetcar which clanged its bell and rode off slowly and smoothly toward the huge arch in the waterfront park. They got out with several other tourists and followed them across a concrete walk. Then they went down a ramp toward the entrance into one leg of the huge span.

It looked like every cartoon of a flying saucer Newt had ever seen. As he stared over the top of his map, a door in the saucer slid aside with a satisfying whoosh, revealing a gleaming walkway which extended automatically down to the road. Brilliant blue light shone out, outlining three alien shapes. They walked down the ramp. At least, two of them walked. The one that looked like a pepper pot just skidded down it, and fell over at the bottom. The other two ignored its frantic beeping and walked over to the car quite slowly, in the worldwide approved manner of policemen already compiling the charge sheet it their heads. The tallest one, a yellow toad dressed in kitchen foil, rapped on Newt's window. He wound it down. The thing was wearing the kind of mirror-finished sunglasses that Newt always thought of as Cool Hand Luke shades. 'Morning, sir or madam or neuter,' the thing said. 'This your planet, is it?' The other alien, which was stubby and green, had wandered off into the woods by the side of the road. Out of the corner of his eye Newt saw it kick a tree, and then run a leaf through some complicated gadget on its belt. It didn't look very pleased. 'Well, yes. I suppose so.' he said. The toad stared thoughtfully at the skyline. 'Had it long, have we, sir?' it said. 'Er. Not personally. I mean, as a species, about half a million years. I think.' The alien exchanged glances with its colleague. 'Been letting the old acid rain build up, haven't we, sir?' it said. 'Been letting ourselves go a bit with the old hydrocarbons, perhaps?' 'I'm sorry.' 'Could you tell me your planet's albedo, sir?' said the the toad, still staring levelly at the horizon as though it was doing something interesting. 'Er. No.' 'Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you, sir, that your polar ice caps are below regulation size for a planet of this category, sir.' 'Oh, dear,' said Newt. He was wondering who he could tell about this, and realizing that there was absolutely no one who would believe him. [...] The small alien walked past the car. 'CO2 level up 0.5 percent,' it rasped, giving him a meaningful look. 'You do know you could find yourself charged with being a dominant species while under the influence of impulse-driven consumerism, don't you?

My hour with my phone off starts shortly after I get home from work. This is one of the hardest times of the day because my children are ramped up for my attention, but I’m still trying to come down from the workday. My habit is to get changed, make one final email check to make sure things are in order at the office—and if not, to tell someone that I’ll get back to them later that night—and then to turn it off and put it in my dresser drawer. It’s a weird feeling, almost like hiding a valuable under a mattress. You walk away but your mind stays on it. You can visualize it sitting there in the dark. But whether the boys and I are riding bikes to the park, initiating a royal rumble on the living room floor, or setting the table together, my presence is fundamentally different that hour of the day. I am with them. Whatever we’re doing, it is together.

Marc walked down the jet way, blinking into the rising sun. He dug in the bag for the USAF-issue sunglasses that he habitually carried and wiped them clean. Lucy was waiting at the foot of the ramp, dressed in the same kind of almost-neutral clothing as he was. She was peering at a sheaf of paper maps, and among the sheets Marc saw a blow-up of the satellite image he had provided to Rubicon, the errant picture salvaged from the comm files. ‘We can make this by late afternoon if we hustle,’ she told him. ‘A helo would draw too much attention. We’ll take the highway.’ She jerked her thumb at a battered Land Rover parked in the shadow of the jet. Malte, the taciturn driver, was in the process of loading the 4x4 with two equipment cases, one labelled with a red stripe, another with blue. ‘Is he coming with us?’ Lucy shook her head. ‘Just you and me, pal.

What’s this crazy sail plan you’ve got there?” He was walking down to the ship now. Someone had placed a boarding ramp against the rail and he climbed up, studying the twin yardarms and the bundled-up sails. Hal and Stig joined him. Others clustered round the bow of the beached ship, straining to see. “It’s my design, Oberjarl. It’s based on a bird’s wing,” Hal said. Erak frowned. He shoved one of the yardarms with his toe. “Why? What’s the point? I mean, it’s pretty, but why do you want a sail like a bird’s wing?” “She’ll point higher into the wind than a square sail,” Hal said. Erak looked doubtful. “So you say.” “She’ll point three times as high as a wolfship,” Stig interjected indignantly. “She’ll sail rings around a wolfship!” Erak turned slowly to regard him. There was a long silence and Stig’s face began to redden. “Who are you? His lawyer?” Erak asked.

Only then did Shukhov catch on to what was up. He glanced at Kilgas. He'd understood, too. The roofing felt. Der had spotted it on the windows. Shukhov feared nothing for himself. His squad leader would never give him away. He was afraid for Tiurin. To the squad Tiurin was a father, for them he was a pawn. Up in the North they readily gave squad, leaders a second term for a thing like this. Ugh, what a face Tiurin made. He threw down his trowel and took a step toward Der. Der looked around. Pavlo lifted his spade. He hadn't grabbed it for nothing. And Senka, for all his deafness, had understood. He came up, hands on hips. And Senka was built solid. Der blinked, gave a sort of twitch, and looked around for a way of escape. Tiurin leaned up against him and said quite softly, though distinctly enough for everyone to hear: "Your time for giving terms has passed, you bastard. If you say one word, you blood-sucker, it'll be your last day on earth. Remember that." Tiurin shook, shook uncontrollably. Hatchet-faced Pavlo looked Der straight in the eyes. A look as sharp as a razor. "Now, men, take it easy." Der turned pale and edged away from the ramp. Without another word Tiurin straightened his hat, picked up his trowel, and walked back to his wall. Pavlo, very slowly, went down the ramp with his spade. Slo-o-owly. Der was as scared to stay as to leave. He took shelter behind Kilgas and stood there. Kilgas went on laying blocks, the way they count out pills at a drugstore--like a doctor, measuring everything so carefully--his back to Der, as if he didn't even know he was there. Der stole up to Tiurin. Where was all his arrogance? "But what shall I tell the superintendent, Tiurin?". Tiurin went on working. He said, without turning his head: "You will tell him it was like that when we arnved. We came and that's how it was." Der waited a little longer. They weren't going to bump him off now, he saw. He took a few steps and puthis hands in his pockets. "Hey, S 854," he muttered. "Why are you using such a thin layer of mortar?" He had to get back at someone. He couldn't find fault with Shukhov for his joints or for the straightness of his line, so he decided he was laying the mortar too thin.

Sonja said once that to understand men like Ove and Rune, one had to understand from the very beginning that they were men caught in the wrong time. Men who only required a few simple things from life, she said. A roof over their heads, a quiet street, the right make of car, and a woman to be faithful to. A job where you had a proper function. A house where things broke at regular intervals, so you always had something to tinker with. “All people want to live dignified lives; dignity just means something different to different people,” Sonja had said. To men like Ove and Rune dignity was simply that they’d had to manage on their own when they grew up, and therefore saw it as their right not to become reliant on others when they were adults. There was a sense of pride in having control. In being right. In knowing what road to take and how to screw in a screw, or not. Men like Ove and Rune were from a generation in which one was what one did, not what one talked about. She knew, of course, that Ove didn’t know how to bear his nameless anger. He needed labels to put on it. Ways of categorizing. So when men in white shirts at the council, whose names no normal person could keep track of, tried to do everything Sonja did not want—make her stop working, move her out of her house, imply that she was worth less than a healthy person who was able to walk, and assert that she was dying—Ove fought them. With documents and letters to newspapers and appeals, right down to something as unremarkable as an access ramp at a school. He fought so doggedly for her against men in white shirts that in the end he began to hold them personally responsible for all that happened to her—and to the child. And then she left him alone in a world where he no longer understood the language.

Images of white, semi clad women in colour would be very conspicuous in an otherwise unintelligible newspaper to Nanaki. It was somewhat incongruous to see little pictures, sourced from foreign news agencies, of white women in bikinis, sun tanning on a beach in Zakynthos or a procession of revellers in Sao Paulo complete with exotic costume regalia: trailing pheasant feathers for tails, operatic masks tantalisingly revealing pouty red lips, breasts protruding out of sequinned two pieces, women’s toned derrieres jutting out of glitzy g-strings vibrating animalistically to the samba, shapely legs fitting snugly into gold stilettos. Others showed women walking down the ramp in skimpy lingerie at a Missoni fashion show in Milan. At times these sights would intrigue Nanaki. For her, Urdu was unintelligible, just black marks on paper. Who reads this newspaper? And who are these pictures for? Whose reality is this?

The door opened. I stopped. Beyond it, orks lined both sides of the corridor. They had been watching for me. The moment I appeared, they roared their approval. They did not attack. They simply stood, clashed guns against blades, and hooted brute enthusiasm. I had been subjected to too many celebratory parades on Armageddon not to recognise one when it confronted me. I went numb from the unreality before me. I stepped forward, though. I had no choice. I walked. It was the most obscene victory march of my life. I moved through corridor, hold and bay, and the massed ranks of the greenskins hailed my passage. I saw the evidence of the destruction I had caused around every bend. Scorch marks, patched ruptures, buckled flooring, collapsed ceilings. But it hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough. Only enough for this… this… At length, I arrived at a launch bay. There was a ship on the pad before the door. It was human, a small in-system shuttle. It was not built for long voyages. No matter, as long as its vox-system was still operative. I knew that it would be. Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka awaited me beside the ship’s access ramp. I did not let my confusion or the sense that I had slipped into an endless waking nightmare slow my stride. I did not hesitate as I strode towards the monster. I stopped before him. I met his gaze with all the cold hatred of my soul. He radiated delight. Then he leaned forward, a colossus of armour and bestial strength. Our faces were mere centimetres apart. My soul bears many scars from the days and months of my defeat and captivity. But there is one memory that, above all others, haunts me. By day, it is a goad to action. By night, it murders sleep. It lives with me always, the proof that there could hardly be a more terrible threat to the Imperium than this ork. Thraka spoke to me. Not in orkish. Not even in Low Gothic. In High Gothic. ‘A great fight,’ he said. He extended a huge, clawed finger and tapped me once on the chest. ‘My best enemy.’ He stepped aside and gestured to the ramp. ‘Go to Armageddon,’ he said. ‘Make ready for the greatest fight.’ I entered the ship, my being marked by words whose full measure of horror lay not in their content, but in the fact of their existence. I stumbled to the cockpit, and discovered that I had a pilot. It was Commander Rogge. His mouth was parted in a scream, but there was no sound. He had no vocal cords any longer. There was very little of his body recognisable. He had been opened up, reorganised, fused with the ship’s control and guidance systems. He had been transformed into a fully aware servitor. ‘Take us out of here,’ I ordered. The rumble of the ship’s engines powering up was drowned by the even greater roar of the orks. I knew that roar for what it was: the promise of war beyond description.

At the top of the hill, Armand Gamache stopper the car and got out. He looked down at the village and his heart soared. J I won a copy of this book from St. Martin's Press (via Bookreporter.com) in return for an unbiased review. This is the first book I've read by Chevy Stevens, but it will not be the last. Never Let You Go is a well-written, very compelling suspense novel that held my interest throughout. I received it on a Friday, and read the first few chapters the same day. It's evidence of the novel's quality that I immediately continued reading the next day, and stayed up late into the night to finish it. Well before the end, it began to appear that all was resolved and the book was headed for a "happily-ever-after" ending that felt a bit disappointing. But Stevens still had a few more twists to go, and suddenly the suspense and tension ramped up again, not letting go until the very end. 4-1/2 stars. He looked over rooftops and imagined the good, kind, flawed people inside struggling with their lives. People were walking their dogs, raking the relentless autumn leaves, racing the gently falling snow. They were shopping at M. Beliveau's general store and buying baguettes from Sarah's boulangerie. Olivier stood at the Bistro doorway and shook out a tablecloth. Life was far from harried here. But neither was it still.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of flopping and glugging, we jumped our last ramp and tumbled to a stop in another tunnel. I stumbled around on my skis for a couple of seconds until Roger cut them off. “Can we not do the fast way anymore?” I asked before puking all over the ground. Sam and Mark patiently waited for me to empty my stomach of sewer water before pressing forward into the next room. “Whoa,” Mark said as we walked to the middle of the chamber. The walls created a perfect circle around us, and the ceiling was at least 100 feet high. It felt like we were standing inside the world’s biggest Pringles can. Right in front of us was a power-up cube. “Why don’t you take this one, Jesse?” Mark asked. I smiled

But the narrow confines of the passageway again made it that much easier to kill the parasitic life-forms, and five minutes later the human walked up a ramp on the other side of the metal door to find that the Monitor was there, humming to himself. 'Oh, hello! I'm a genius.' 'Right. And I'm a Vice Admiral

Any more cargo?" Cohmac called as Reath and Ram picked up their travel packs and headed up the ramp. "No, we got the rest of them, but thanks for your help," Ram said, his face twitching on one side. "What's wrong with your eye?" Cohmac asked. Reath kept walking. "He's trying to wink because he thinks he just made a joke. Let's get this over with, please. This is clearly going to be. a long journey!" "Ah? Ah?" Ram tried, still squinching half his face. "Who will stop this child?" Cohmac wondered out loud. "The child must be stopped.

Being neurodivergent doesn’t mean a person is broken or needs to be fixed. They need support to access the world around them. The solution to helping someone who needs a wheelchair get up steps isn’t to teach them to walk; it is to build a ramp. The solution for someone who has a disability based on their neurological wiring isn’t to tell them to try harder; it is to build (and help them build for themselves) accommodations that allow them to thrive.

I wondered if it was right to instruct the fashion models to walk with poker faces, dead eyes and devoid of emotions when all we really want is to be truly seen, understood and have our feelings comprehended. The shells that the models created around them while walking gave out a message that we are wanted only when we are surrounded by these shells, hiding our innermost feelings behind poker faces. The catwalk seemed more like a soulless promotion of impossible body image standards to an audience who reflected on their 'imperfect' body types throughout the fashion show. The models appeared as though they could neither give nor accept empathy, a trait that makes us human. I wondered what kind of society was being portrayed to the audience as the fashion models appeared emotionally distant and somber. People should be reminded to foster loving connections, embrace their true selves, prioritize fitness, joy, and health; unlike the fashion models.

Navy Lieutenant Commander Joseph Ryerson Walsh, shot down in March of 1969, presumed dead until a year ago … Frankie straightened. Rye shuffled down the ramp, holding on tightly to the yellow railing. The way he walked was uneven, a limp maybe, and he held one arm in close to his body.

About three blocks north, I found a train track, and began to follow it in the same direction I was going. The sun stabbed the immaculate white snow with a blinding glow, and I was thrilled to be a part of the show. The air was indescribably cold, but I was well insulated in my long dark wool coat. It absorbed the heat from the distant white dime of a sun which was rising in the southeastern sky but not getting much closer as it rose. Facing the icy dawn, my heart leapt with joy: I was free!  I slipped and slid and laughed on the icy rails. White was everywhere. The thick blanket made it impossible to read the terrain, especially the small details. After a time, I saw what seemed to be the perfect place to enter the freeway. There were no vehicles on it, I had seen none since I began walking parallel to it on the tracks, and that was more than an hour earlier. The entry ramp was less than fifty yards away. If I had wings, or maybe skis, I would be there in a heartbeat. When I took my second step, I was one hip deep in frozen powder; the other leg was awkwardly turned up the slope. Managing to bring the second leg down, it sunk up to the knee. As I put more pressure on it, I was now level again: both thighs hip deep in snow. I laughed at myself, then trudged forward, crawling out of the hole, slipping and landing on my face. It was both comical and frightening.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. My memory of Diana is not her at an official function, dazzling with her looks and clothes and the warmth of her manner, or even of her offering comfort among the sick, the poor, and the dispossessed. What I remember best is a young woman taking a walk in a beautiful place, unrecognized, carefree, and happy. Diana increasingly craved privacy, a chance “to be normal,” to have the opportunity to do what, in her words, “ordinary people” do every day of their lives--go shopping, see friends, go on holiday, and so on--away from the formality and rituals of royal life. As someone responsible for her security, yet understanding her frustration, I was sympathetic. So when in the spring of the year in which she would finally be separated from her husband, Prince Charles, she yet again raised the suggestion of being able to take a walk by herself, I agreed that such a simple idea could be realized. Much of my childhood had been spent on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset, a county in southern England approximately 120 miles from London; I remembered the wonderful sandy beaches of Studland Bay, on the approach to Poole Harbour. The idea of walking alone on miles of almost deserted sandy beach was something Diana had not even dared dream about. At this time she was receiving full twenty-four-hour protection, and it was at my discretion how many officers should be assigned to her protection. “How will you manage it, Ken? What about the backup?” she asked. I explained that this venture would require us to trust each other, and she looked at me for a moment and nodded her agreement. And so, early one morning less than a week later, we left Kensington Palace and drove to the Sandbanks ferry at Poole in an ordinary saloon car. As we gazed at the coastline from the shabby viewing deck of the vintage chain ferry, Diana’s excitement was obvious, yet not one of the other passengers recognized her. But then, no one would have expected the most photographed woman in the world to be aboard the Studland chain ferry on a sunny spring morning in May. As the ferry docked after its short journey, we climbed back into the car and then, once the ramp had been lowered, drove off in a line of cars and service trucks heading for Studland and Swanage. Diana was driving, and I asked her to stop in a sand-covered area about half a mile from the ferry landing point. We left the car and walked a short distance across a wooded bridge that spanned a reed bed to the deserted beach of Shell Bay. Her simple pleasure at being somewhere with no one, apart from me, knowing her whereabouts was touching to see. Diana looked out toward the Isle of Wight, anxious by now to set off on her walk to the Old Harry Rocks at the western extremity of Studland Bay. I gave her a personal two-way radio and a sketch map of the shoreline she could expect to see, indicating a landmark near some beach huts at the far end of the bay, a tavern or pub, called the Bankes Arms, where I would meet her.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. And so, early one morning less than a week later, we left Kensington Palace and drove to the Sandbanks ferry at Poole in an ordinary saloon car. As we gazed at the coastline from the shabby viewing deck of the vintage chain ferry, Diana’s excitement was obvious, yet not one of the other passengers recognized her. But then, no one would have expected the most photographed woman in the world to be aboard the Studland chain ferry on a sunny spring morning in May. As the ferry docked after its short journey, we climbed back into the car and then, once the ramp had been lowered, drove off in a line of cars and service trucks heading for Studland and Swanage. Diana was driving, and I asked her to stop in a sand-covered area about half a mile from the ferry landing point. We left the car and walked a short distance across a wooded bridge that spanned a reed bed to the deserted beach of Shell Bay. Her simple pleasure at being somewhere with no one, apart from me, knowing her whereabouts was touching to see. Diana looked out toward the Isle of Wight, anxious by now to set off on her walk to the Old Harry Rocks at the western extremity of Studland Bay. I gave her a personal two-way radio and a sketch map of the shoreline she could expect to see, indicating a landmark near some beach huts at the far end of the bay, a tavern or pub, called the Bankes Arms, where I would meet her. She set off at once, a tall figure clad in a pair of blue denim jeans, a dark-blue suede jacket, and a soft scarf wrapped loosely around her face to protect her from the chilling, easterly spring wind. I stood and watched as she slowly dwindled in the distance, her head held high, alone apart from busy oyster catchers that followed her along the water’s edge. It was a strange sensation watching her walking away by herself, with no bodyguards following at a discreet distance. What were my responsibilities here? I kept thinking. Yet I knew this area well, and not once did I feel uneasy. I had made this decision--not one of my colleagues knew. Senior officers at Scotland Yard would most certainly have boycotted the idea had I been foolish enough to give them advance notice of what the Princess and I were up to.

Squaring her shoulders, Megan stepped out into the hall and her bare foot was almost flattened by a remote-control car. She jumped out of the way just in time and watched the thing zip down the hall and hop a makeshift ramp. Megan’s eyes widened in horror as she saw what was at the other end of the jump. Oh…my…God! The car slammed into a mountain of wrapped tampons, which exploded all over the hallway at impact. Ian raced past her, laughing maniacally, wielding the controls. Doug came out of his room to check out the commotion, picked up one of the tampons, and smirked. “Super-absorbency?” he said, just as Evan and Finn emerged from their rooms on opposite sides of the hall. “What’s super-absorbency?” Ian asked, his forehead wrinkling. “I don’t even want to know,” Doug replied, chucking the tampon in Megan’s direction. She caught it, feeling like her body temperature could singe a hole in the rug. Doug laughed and took off down the stairs with Ian barreling after him. “Ignore him. We all do,” Evan said with a groggy smile. “Uh…dude,” Finn said, glancing down at Evan’s boxers, which were covered in cartoon frogs and gaping open. Then Finn glanced over at Megan. Then Evan went back into his room and closed the door. No shame whatsoever. “Here, I’ll…help you clean this up,” Finn said, dropping to the floor and picking up a few tampons. “No!” Megan lurched forward and Finn fell back from his knees to his butt. She grabbed the tampons from his hands. “I’d really rather you didn’t.” “But I can--” “No. Just…I’m fine,” Megan said, awkwardly gathering up the slippery wrappers in her arms. “Thanks.” “Okay,” Finn said. He stood and hovered for a second, prolonging Megan’s mortification. Finally Finn walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Left alone, it was all Megan could do to keep from bursting into tears. They had been in her room. They had gone through her stuff. And Evan had seen her tampons. This was definitely the worst morning of her life. Megan stood up, clamped her things to her chest, walked into her room, and dropped everything on her bed. Okay, get a grip, she told herself. It could have been worse. Somehow.

near-deserted parking lot, both buildings looking freshly painted and hopeful for a marina in which there were no yachts. The biggest boat moored at the dock looked to be a forty-footer. Most of the others looked to be lobster boats, aged and constructed of wood. A few of the newer ones were fiberglass. The nicest of those was about thirty-five feet long, the hull painted blue, the wheelhouse painted white, the deck a honey teak. She paid attention to it because her husband stood on it, bathed in their headlights. Caleb exited the car fast. He pointed back at her, told Brian his wife was not taking things well. Rachel was happy to note Caleb limped even as he speed-walked to the boat. She, on the other hand, moved slowly, her eyes on Brian. His gaze barely left hers except for the occasional flicks in the direction of Caleb. If she’d known she’d end up killing him, would she have boarded the boat? She could turn around and go to the police. My husband is an impostor, she’d say. She imagined some smarmy desk sergeant replying, “Aren’t we all, ma’am?” Yes, she was certain, it was a crime to impersonate someone and a crime to keep two wives, but were those serious crimes? In the end, wouldn’t Brian just take a plea and it would all go away? She’d be left the laughingstock never-was, the failed print reporter who’d become a pill-addicted broadcast reporter who’d become a punch line and then a shut-in and who would keep the local comics stocked with weeks of fresh material once it was discovered that Meltdown Media Chick had married a con man with another wife and another life. She followed Caleb up the ramp to the boat. He stepped aboard. When she went to do the same, Brian offered his hand. She stared at it until he dropped it. He noticed the gun she carried. “Should I show you mine? So I feel safer?” “Be my guest.” She stepped aboard. As she did, Brian caught her by the wrist and stripped the gun from her hand in the same motion. He pulled his own gun, a .38 snub-nosed revolver, from under the flaps of his shirt and then laid them both on a table by the

My SOUTH sign stopped working on an entrance ramp in a sleepy farm town called Kittitas in the state of Washington. A man who introduced himself as Juan Hernandez—a Mexican immigrant with a contracting business in Yakima—saw me and decided to pull over, even though he wasn’t heading in my direction. He took me to a Wendy’s and, despite my objections, bought me a hamburger and fries, which he watched me eat. He spoke in broken, hard-to-understand English, but his passion for his god and his America was palpable. He spoke with no hint of cynicism, of sarcasm, of guile. He only spoke of how happy he was to raise his baby girl, Genesis, here in America and to be able to buy nice clothes for his family. When he dropped me off, I sat down on my pack and covered my eyes with my hands to hide the tears streaming down my cheeks. This was neither the first nor the last time I had difficulty bearing other people’s generosity. Even though I had liked to think I was a solo adventurer, I realized that I was never really alone. I walked a tightwire above a net of compassion, stretched out by the hands of strangers

Dawn is breaking, sending pale fingers of cold light across the hills that surround the Harrisons’ farmyard. Jess is being difficult, rearing and trying to bolt away from the truck, and we’ve been at it for some time when Liam comes out of the house and sees our predicament. He marches across the yard, picks up a piece of cut-off hosepipe and walks up behind the pony. I see the look on Alec’s face as his dad approaches, and he’s not happy. Liam tells his son to “walk her up” and then cracks the mare around the rump with the piece of pipe when she plants her feet. The sound of the pipe hitting the pony echoes across the hills and rings in my ears. Jess starts to rear but earns another whack around the backside, so scrambles up the ramp and stands trembling in the truck. Alec quickly ties her up, his expression unreadable.

Our driveway seemed darker than usual. I knew it was silly, but I kept looking around as I walked. Then something rustled in the trees overhead. That was enough for me. I took off running and didn’t stop until I made it to the bottom of the boat ramp. Conditions at the marina weren’t exactly ideal for a romantic conversation. The wind was howling, and the docks groaned as they rose and fell. Even so, it was better than trying to talk with Julie around.

After having ice cream, Alexander and Tatiana were walking along the Neva embankment heading west into the sunset and across from the green-and-white splendor of the Winter Palace when on the opposite side of the street Tatiana spotted a man who made her stop suddenly. A tall, thin, middle-aged man with a long, gray Jovian beard stood outside the Hermitage Museum with an expression of absolute shattered regret. Tatiana instantly reacted to his face. What could make a man look this way? He was standing next to the back of a military truck, watching young men carry wooden crates down the ramp from the Winter Palace. It was these crates the man looked at with such profound heartbreak, as if they were his vanishing first love. “Who is that man?” she asked, tremendously affected by his expression. “The curator of the Hermitage.” “Why is he looking at the crates that way?” Alexander said, “They are his life’s sole passion. He doesn’t know if he is ever going to see them again.” Tatiana stared at the man. She almost wanted to go and comfort him. “He’s got to have more faith, don’t you think?” “I agree, Tania.” Alexander smiled. “He’s got to have a little more faith. After the war is over, he will see his crates again.” “The way he is looking at them, after the war is over he is going to bring them back single-handedly,” declared Tatiana.

You boys picked a fine day to pay us a visit,” he said with a laugh. “In a little while that fog will be so thick you can walk on it.” The Hardys peered through the tinted panes of glass enclosing the control room. Already the ramp area immediately below was vanishing in a milky fog.

voice in this? For God’s sake, Chase—” She caught the warning look in Chase’s eye and stopped cold. This wasn’t the time or place. He seemed to be silently warning her, telling her not to make a scene in front of the detective. “Baldwin was interested. That’s all.” “And so you met at the mill and then what?” Wilson asked. “We’d just left the office and were walking up the ramp to building

I recognize Sergeant Fallon instantly. She walks down the ramp with the efficiency of movement I remember well. There’s nothing casual about her stride. She walks onto the Midway’s flight deck like a predator checking out a new environment. I know that her left leg underneath the battle armor is titanium alloy and nanocarbon fibers instead of flesh and bone, but there’s no way to deduce it from her gait. As she steps off the ramp and toward her unit’s assembly area on the other side of the black-and-yellow safety line, there’s a phalanx of her troopers around her—not bodyguards, but limbs of the same belligerent organism, ready to strike out in any direction if needed.

It wasn't until she was on the ramp leading to the plane that she realized what she'd left behind. Her bangle, the one she never removed, the one Kaushik had hooked his finger through that first night, drawing her to him. She saw it now in her mind, sitting in the gray plastic tray she'd placed it in before passing through the security gate. She turned around, began walking in the opposite direction, back to the woman who had taken her boarding pass.

walked through a small park and up the steps of the stern gray building of US Customs and Border Protection. I strolled down the ramp and pushed through a turnstile, no one looking at my passport. Glancing through the chain-link fence on the Mexican side of the building, I saw a line of people—a long line, stretching down the stairs and through a foyer and along a passageway, hundreds, perhaps a thousand people waiting to enter the United States.

Three girls walking down the ramp Oh yeah, three girls who just wanna have some fun! Sassy and classy girls you can't stop admiring Oh yeah, three girls walking down the ramp Oh yeah, three girls who just wanna have some fun! Exquisite and enticing girls, you get captivated by, Oh yeah, three girls walking down the ramp Oh yeah, three girls who just wanna have some fun!

but the latch to the gate popped open and he walked up a smoothly inclined ramp that started right at the gate to ensure that the angle wasn’t too dramatic. Good design, and uncommon because most ramps were crafted with no real thought to the user beyond being serviceable.

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The Sea Knight was designed to haul vehicles, if needed, with a drop-down ramp at the rear. Alexander flipped a switch and it lowered, allowing arctic air to gust into the helicopter. Even though we’d been outfitted with weapons, they were only for emergencies. Cyrus and Ivan had agreed that no one would bring them to our meeting, so we left them in the helicopter, which made me uneasy. I didn’t like carrying a weapon myself—but I also didn’t like the idea of all of us going to face the Russians unarmed. It felt like we were walking into a lion’s den. Alexander had agreed to stay behind with the helicopter, in case of trouble. He was chosen because he was the only one who knew how to fly the chopper—and because Cyrus felt that the farther Alexander was from the meeting, the less chance he had of screwing things up. “Here goes nothing,” Cyrus said, and then led us down the ramp. As I stepped out onto the ice floe, it occurred to me that I had never been so far from land in my life. Even though I had been on a mission aboard a cruise ship rather recently, we had never been more than a few miles off the coast. The ice I was standing on was a dozen times farther out. All the color in the world appeared to have vanished except for shades of blue (the sky and the sea) and white (the ice and the distant polar bear). There wasn’t a plant, or a rock, or even a bit of dirt to be seen. We were floating in the middle of nowhere. Still, it was as nice a day as we could have hoped for in the Arctic. The sun was shining and reflecting off the white floe so strongly that I felt its warmth despite standing atop a giant ice cube. It was deathly quiet, save for the faint slap of the water against the floes and the distant huffing of the polar bear. Despite the brisk wind, the sea was as calm and level as the Great Plains. The floe was so big and sturdy, it felt as though we were walking across solid ground.

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wasn’t sure what Paresi meant by confidential, and he wasn’t going to say in his text, “This is cop-to-cop,” but that was the implication. Maybe he was finally getting his head on straight. I texted him: 20 minutes. I called down to the parking garage and was happy to get Gomp on the phone. I said, “Gomp, this is Tom Walsh.” “Hey, Tom, how ya doin’?” “Swell. I need a ride down to Sixty-eighth and Lex again.” “Sure thing.” “I need you to meet me at the freight elevator.” “Freight elevator?” “Right. Two minutes. And mum’s the word.” I added, “Fifty bucks.” “Sure thing.” I hung up and strapped on my gun belt and hip holster. On the belt, in a sheath, was Uncle Ernie’s K-bar knife that I’d taken with me on all my walks in the park. I put on a blue windbreaker and left my apartment. As I was speed walking toward the freight elevator, I realized my vest was packed in my luggage. I don’t normally wear a vest, so it’s not second nature, like my gun, or my shield, or leaving the toilet seat up. I hesitated and looked at my watch. The hell with it. I got in the freight elevator, hit the garage button, and down I went. The elevator doors opened, and there was Gomp sitting in a nice BMW SUV. I was glad he hadn’t stolen my green Jeep. I came around the car and said to him, “I need help with something in the elevator.” “Sure thing.” He got out of the BMW and moved toward the freight elevator as I jumped in the driver’s seat. Gomp shouted, “Hey! Tom! Where you—?” I hit the accelerator, drove up the ramp, and turned right onto 72nd Street. I caught the green light at Third Avenue and continued on. I looked in the rearview mirror. There wasn’t much traffic at this hour on a drizzly Sunday night, and I didn’t see any headlights trying to keep up with me. That was easy. Subways are faster than cars in Manhattan, but the closest station to the World

Win spun the wheel, cut across two lanes, and swerved onto a ramp. Minutes later the Jag veered into the Kinney lot on Fifty-second Street. They gave the keys to Mario, the parking attendant. Manhattan was hot. City hot. The sidewalk scorched your feet right through your shoes. Exhaust fumes got stuck in the humidity, hanging in the air like fruit on a tree. Breathing was a chore. Sweating was not. The secret was to keep the sweat to a minimum while walking, hoping that the air-conditioning would dry off your clothes without giving you pneumonia. Myron

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