From "The Deskmaker's Nephew"

Garnet 180 grit open-coat -- it was the only sandpaper the old man would allow in the shop after the sun went down and his small supper was finished, and with the daily orders for the standard armoires and credenzas now completed and shipped, the strong, wrinkled hands began to slowly drag the coarse square across the wood. The strokes came in perfect time, a backbeat to the crickets outside the shed, a rhythm that, purposely or not, precisely matched the opening maracas from The Bangles 1985 hit "Walk Like an Egyptian."

Reggie entered carrying two bottles of Powerade Jagged Ice. It was time for the real work to begin.

The 180 grit square continued to push out thin clouds of sawdust that settled on the man's hairy arms in a powdery web. "Bring the medium grommets over here, Reggie, and then see if you can find the drop-front captive-slide hinge I finished last night. It should be somewhere in the back. I want to try something different tonight. Something special." The old man opened the Powerade Jagged Ice and drank deeply.

The drop-front captive-slide hinge was, of course, needed for keyboard extraction for extra accessibility in tight places. Reggie found the drop-front captive-slide hinge and brought it into the main work area, softly laying it on the table, knowing that this eve, for the first time in the many months of sleepless nights in the shed tending to the old man and fetching countless Powerades, he would see something truly special -- an artist at his peak of his prowess working on a perfectly positioned personal project. Reggie thoughts were often heavily alliterated.

The drop-front captive-slide hinge was gorgeous. The well formed steel was powder coated with a rust-free black epoxy and rested on a pair of well lubed Delrin rollers that practically begged to be pushed. Reggie's eyes widened, the soft glare of the hinge resting under the shed's lanterns made him think about his father's fateful flight from France four fecades fago.

"This," said the old man between gulps of Jagged Ice, "this Reggie -- this will be the desk that I am remembered for."

Reggie rolled his shoulders back. "No, sir." he said. "This will be the desk that we are remembered for."

From "The Peaks of Neacola"

Morris breathed deeply, the hanging mist of the cold Aleutian air stinging his lungs, and gathered himself, weary from the struggle and his daring escape, taking pause but still well aware that the next attack would come soon. He let out a wise chuckle; he rationalized that a younger, less world-weary Morris McKeever would not have survived the onslaught. The youthful, inquisitive Morris would have hesitated, he would have clamped up, concerned less about his own safety than with trying to figure out how the giant squid was able to scale fifteen thousand vertical feet in subzero weather with no climbing gear in sight.

The suction cups had done a number on his arms, and with each rapid heartbeat he felt the bloody red mounds on his biceps pulse in rhythm. Exhausted, he sat and leaned back against the Ice Fortress, clutching the ice harpoon to his sweater which was now caked in frozen blood and ink. His head bobbed as his eyes slowly closed...and then...in a flash of giant eye and beak...the squid was upon him.