"Floating just below the level of consciousness, Stephan was aware that he was lying on his back inside of some sort of vehicle. He smelled some strange mixture of vomit and disinfectant. He recognized the squawk of a walkie-talkie and then, nearby, a voice: “Dr. Jackson? My name is Ted Brautigan, and I am a paramedic with Jonesville County EMS. If you can hear me, open your eyes.”"
"Yes, Grampy’s art goes in the back. Not all of it, of course. There’s just too much. Just some of the cheaper pieces. Some of the stuff that’s been in storage that Aryn never put on display."
"“Carlton,” he called toward the back of the warehouse. “Carlton? What do you think of this space? Is the light right? I just don’t know…” Turning with a swish, Stephan watched the dust-motes from the old textile mill tracing lazy figures in the shaft of late summer sunlight that slanted through the western bank of warehouse windows. “I want to love it, but… well, you know how I can’t help second-guessing myself.” Stephan had never been decisive. He had never possessed the capacity to lead. Not himself, and certainly not others. He blamed his idiot father. “Dumb fuck,” he muttered under his breath."