October 31, 2016 - 15:36
Page 175: "Geek set up his hammock in the corner of the greenhouse, and I took to hanging out with him in the evenings, after the kids and my parents had gone to bed. I'd lie there in the humid warmth, strung between two posts, watching him plant things. He had rigged up some drip-irrigation tubing to connect with an old glass beaker, which he suspended above the hammock and filled with ice cubes and a powerful blue drink made with rum and pineapple and curacao. The system worked on gravity feed, and I'd swing in the hammock and sip the cerulean liquid from the tip of a miniature hose, controlling the rate of its flow with a nozzle. He has downloaded some old Hawaiian music off the internet: 'Sweet Leilani,' 'Blue Hawaiian Moon.' The tropical lyrics tugged at my heart. The twang and wow of the slack-key guitar, the gentle sway of the hammock, the humid air - intoxicated by these, I could almost forget I was in Idaho. But never for long. Something always happened to bring me back."
Page 188: "He ordered the huevos and coffee and picked up a copy of the local paper that was lying by the register. Potato farmers were being sued by a local Indian tribe demanding compensation for groundwater contamination from agricultural runoff. Shoshone, he remembered. He ripped out the article. He'd been pressing Cynaco to support InterTribal Agricultural Councils. Maybe he could even get a Shoshone spokesperson to endorse the NuLife-fewer pesticides mean clean water for our people, that sort of thing. Wisdom. Heritage. Indians always made for positive imaging."
Page 240: "'I've never been able to make them feel safe,' I said. 'Maybe that's what happens when you run away from home. You get older, but you never really grow up." I held out the cigarette to prove my point. 'See? I come back to this house, and it's like I'm a teenager again. Smoking. Sneaking out to sleep with Elliot. It's like time just folded and my whole life between then and now never happened.'"