“Is Toccata around?” I asked. “I could tell her.”
“Clearly, you don’t know Toccata, and no, she’s off-duty.”
“It’s probably important enough to interrupt her break,” I persisted.
“It doesn’t work that way. And besides, if she thinks you were in any way to blame for Logan‘s death, well, I don’t much care for your chances.”
“C’mon,” I said, having always thought the stories about Toccata were overblown, as was almost everything in the Winter, “she can’t be that volatile.”
“She punched me in the eye so hard she detached my retina,” he said, “and all I did was place the preposition at the end of the sentence.”