“The lie sounds much more mature than the real reason,” I assure him, but he just stares expectantly, apparently not letting me out of here with my dignity. “You’re sort of the high-school-quarterback type, and those types just have secretive, unimportant flings with the death-obsessed, horrible-dancing, young-and-naïve damsels-in-distress, who get themselves in more trouble than they’re worth. Trouble finds me no matter what, it seems. The cults want me outside the town, and the monsters want me inside the town.”
