A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)

by Ransom Riggs

“I’d like to visit Muncie, Indiana,” said Olive. “The guidebook says you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Muncie.” “What guidebook?” “Peculiar Planet: North America,” Olive said, and held up a book with a tattered green cover. “It’s a travel guide for peculiars. It named Muncie America’s

Most Normal Town six years running. Totally average in every way.”

(Grandpa Portman might have been a peculiar war hero and a badass hollowgast hunter, but few things thrilled him more than a bargain.)

This was my Papaw to a T. Example: Trading in 2 perfectly lovely cemetary plots he had for him and grandma for a mausoleum in the top row to save a few bucks. I miss him desperately.

“Actually, I was expecting more in the way of flying cars and robot assistants and such. Robot pants at the very least.” “Sorry about that. We made the internet instead.” “Very disappointing.” “I know. I’d rather have flying cars.”

Things that normal people thought were important, I thought were dumb. And there was never anyone I could talk to about it, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

“Even the most terrible era of the past is at least knowable. It can be studied. The world survived it. But in the present, one never knows when the whole world could come to a terrible, crashing end.”

“Horace, you’re scaring people,” I said, drawing him close. “It’s only cheese.” “Only cheese!” he said. “Okay, it’s a lot of cheese.” “It’s the pinnacle of human achievement,” he declared seriously. “I thought Britain was an empire. But this—this—is world domination!”

I kept an especially watchful eye on Millard (or where I thought he might be) because I really didn’t want to lose an invisible boy in All-Mart.

“My God,” said Millard. “What kind of country is this?” “A cruel one,” said Emma. Paul sighed. “Is there another kind?”

“If you can spare me for one moment,” said Bronwyn, “I’m going to go and break that man’s jaw.”

The singer was a man in clown makeup and a bone-white wig. He was seated on a daybed, bellied up to a small cocktail table, and was pouring himself a drink from a bottle. He seemed to be stuck: He would sip from the glass in his hand, splash a bit more from the bottle into the glass, sing a few words, then sip again. When he saw us he raised his glass and said, “Chin-chin! Happy birthday, Frankie!”

Um...freaking creepy.