We took the sailing skiff. There was no wind. In the light of the moon, I rowed Papa upriver on the incoming tide and on past Possum Key to the eastern bays. 

Toward the end of the war, a certain Headquarters retreated across the Rhine, leaving behind one officer and a garrison of local conscripts. The officer had asked to be left, yet could give no reason; it was said that he was ill, and there was no time to investigate the matter.

Old Man William Brown at Half Way Creek, he liked the way I went about my business. He liked my style and saw some future for me so he took a down payment on a wornout schooner. 

The Follansbees’ Christmas party was at tea-time on Christmas Day, and it was for all ages. Ignoring the fire laws, the big Christmas tree standing between the two front windows in the living room of the Park Avenue apartment had candles on it.

When I was really little, she would tell me the Luftwaffe’s bombs were as loud as a sweet potato man’s steamer, like a jet engine on the runway.

I woke up, opened the curtains, found my nightgown, made the bed, tightened the sheets, fluffed the pillows, donned my slippers, turned the tap, filled the kettle, hit the switch, boiled the water, brewed the tea, stirred the milk

Those who saw him hushed. On Church Street. Liberty. Cortland. West Street. Fulton. Vesey. It was a silence that heard itself, awful and beautiful. Some thought at first that it must have been a trick of the light,

No Tahoe in the lot. Which was bullcrap. Because only on-duty officers were supposed to drive the Tahoe, and he was the on-duty officer, so somebody had the Tahoe who wasn’t supposed 

Among the many rules on the grief bus, the most sacred, perhaps, is this: never ask for information not freely offered.

So get into my death car, everyone, and I will drive you through the flood.