“Sorry, buddy,” Young whispered, dropping to his bad knee to get eye-level with Jackson. He put one hand on the archeologist’s shoulder. “You can’t save it. They already know."
“You feel like you know Mozart. Like, Mozart Mozart? Volfgahng Amadeus? The dead guy who you’ve definitely never met ever one time in your life. That Mozart.”
“Ugh,” Eli said, zipping up his jacket and eyeing the sheeting rain, lit to orange in the glow of streetlights. “It’s like you’re the responsible straight man in the zany romantic comedy of your own life, dude, where your love interest is your past self!"
It doesn’t seem like October. Unfortunately, the main reason it doesn’t seem like October is that Mitchell has a hard time believing that he’s lived this long. That they all have.
Relief is not a sentiment that Amanda Perry typically encounters. Generally, she creates logistical nightmares with her presence that are often, but not always, worth the insight she offers.
Rodney hates the implementation of solutions that require destruction of any kind. It is, Zelenka thinks, a surprisingly poetic weakness in a physicist.
They sat together on the hood of Young’s car in the middle of Pike National Forest, at the same unnamed scenic overlook where Young had dressed Vala’s shoulder injury weeks before.
“Pointless meeting? Check. Chess tutorial? Check. Fluid dynamics consult? Check.” Rush pulled Young’s sunglasses out of his bag. “Do you have cooking wine? I feel like lighting something on fire.”