[…] the rosary beads that hung from her belt like a zoot-suiter's key chain were blinky bright […]

The door was guarded by a retired cop named Frankie the Golfer, who sat by the door in an upholstered bar chair that he leaned back against the wall.

He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and probably never had to work a day in his life.

After last night, after Logan had lifted her from the couch and carried her to his bed, after they'd made a mess of grilled cheese sandwiches and hot fudge sundaes, not a muscle on her skeleton was unused, untested, or unsore.