She had no clear memory of that day; it was all in bits and pieces, like many different pockets emptied carelessly into the same drawer.

He wondered where the other boats had gone.

Slowly, very slowly, she began at length to sponge out the crimson juice of the damsons...

Like a modern-day alchemist, he counted drops of essential oils — oak moss, rose, sandalwood, sweet basil, rosemary and bergamot — into a glass beaker, occasionally pausing to contemplate his potion.

She drank the cup of sin, and shame, and misery, whereof her persecuted race are compelled to drink.

He started to believe he was as crazy as she was.

She crossed the road, deciding to take a different route and, as she walked by, she tried to take a look at the man's face but it was hidden by a baseball cap.

He knew then that he should never have pursued the caribou.

She felt as if she had lived a long, long time.

He hurried past the robot, following his uncle into the inventing room.

She tried not to make waves and tried to fade into the woodwork.

He drew deeply on his cigarette.

It was important, she reasoned, not to fall asleep in the dark where deviant things might carry her off.

He smiled in a way I found offensive.

She watched as the dirt kicked up in a cloud.

He frosted under heavy guard.

Picking up several of the plates, she began circulating around the room, exchanging pieces of pie for murmurs of sympathy.

Realizing he had only months to live, he quickly wrote his autobiography--in the third person as a thinly-cloaked and humorous novel.

Flipping on a small lamp, she scrounged through the dusty cubbyholes, discarding pens, note cards, thimbles and rubber bands until she found the scrap of paper she'd been looking for, a tattered piece of newspaper.

As soon as he met her, he took to her.