T.K.: Mom, am I dead? Gwyn: You're not dead. T.K.: Are you? Gwyn: I'm not even here. T.K.: How am I talking to you then? Gwyn: Because you need me to be the person to tell you this. T.K.: Tell you what? Gwyn: Stop it. T.K.: Stop what? Gwyn: Dying.
Grace: Billy, if you are on your way to an, "I told you so," I will rip your weasel tongue out, stick it to that windshield just to watch it freeze. Billy: You conjure quite an image.
