When Hodgins and I were buried alive, we each wrote a message to someone we loved in case our bodies were ever found. Hodgins wrote to Angela. I wrote to you. 'Dear Agent Booth, you are a confusing man. You are irrational and impulsive, superstitious and exasperating. You believe in ghosts and angels and maybe even Santa Claus. And because of you, I've started to see the universe differently. How is it possible that simply looking into your fine face gives me so much joy? Why does it make me so happy that every time I try to sneak a peek at you you are already looking at me? Like you, it makes no sense. And like you, it feels right. If I ever get out of here, I will find a time and a place to tell you that you make my life messy and confusing and unfocused and irrational and wonderful.' This is that time. This is that place.
Wendell Bray: (running up with a bone in his hands) Dead guy's hyoid. Bones: Guy as in sexually non-specific urban colloquialism or in the reference to the gender normally associated with a penis, Mr. Bray? Wendell Bray: Um ... penis?