Yonge Line, with a witness

Caucasian man, mid 20s, wearing a black nylon jacket, dyed dark blue jeans ripped at the ankle seam, black police boots, and a white mesh baseball cap with graffiti across the front. He's leaning forward and drops another book as he rushes the door, almost missing his stop.

Fluke: Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings, Christopher Moore (HarperCollins)

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"I thought that was real estate." Clay actually felt a twinge of missed opportunity, here, for although he had spent his life having adventures, doing exactly what he wanted to do, and although he often felt like the darkest guy in the room (because he'd surrounded himself with scientists), now, talking to Kona, he realized that he had never realized his full potential as a self-deluded blockhead. Ahh...wistful regrets. Clay liked this kid.

A trip to the JP-something-or-other sounded like fun. It's not often a 65 year old woman gets to say she's dating a rocket scientist. ("Well, as a matter of fact...") But here we are, and she's standing in front of the vending machine astonished that the brain food is no different from the movie theatre confections back home. Ambling the halls, she can only look at the oversized colour photos on the walls for so long. ("There's life, I get it.") She notices a golf cart on the outside compound. The door takes some umph, its seal broken with an audible sigh. Signs caution visitors to stay on the roads; there are rattlers about. She knocks the vehicle into gear and stirs up a path across the desert. Back where she came from, NASA shuts down, a tiny blonde on the monitors, bumping off the back roads, her hair a blur, like a young teenager on a carnival ride.